by Roger Taylor
No! He mustn't even think like that. There was only one reality. Here was here, what he had known for most of his adult life. The world, or worlds, of the Whistler were some fabrication of his own imagination, however vivid they might seem. He must cling to what he had here, to what he knew. The word cling unsettled him, though. His hand tightened about Skynner's arm.
The big man winced. ‘Steady,’ he said, gently prising Vredech's grip open.
'Help me up,’ Vredech said.
'Just wait a moment until I've finished looking at you,’ Skynner ordered, his hands still prying through Vredech's hair.
Vredech protested irritably. ‘Get me up, for mercy's sake. You're no physi ... ouch!'
'Yes, there it is,’ Skynner said knowingly, probing the spot on Vredech's head again, regardless of his protests. The housekeeper returned carrying a bowl of water and a cloth. Skynner motioned her to put it down on a nearby chair which she did with a conspicuous show of injured dignity despite her still obvious concern for Vredech.
'It's just a bruise,’ Skynner diagnosed, wetting the cloth and placing it on Vredech's head. ‘Skin's not broken. It'll be sore for a while, but ...'
'An expert in blows to the head, are you?’ Vredech interrupted sarcastically as he took the cloth and repositioned it.
'Oh yes,’ Skynner acknowledged with a smile, tapping the baton that hung from his belt. ‘A considerable expert.'
Vredech shook his head, to his immediate regret, and Skynner laughed unsympathetically. The housekeeper's indignation bubbled over, and without speaking she pushed the Keeper to one side and bent down to look at her employer. ‘Are you all right, Brother?’ she asked.
Vredech remembered just in time not to nod as he replied. ‘Yes,’ he said, patting her arm but looking past her at Skynner. ‘Help me up,’ he demanded, anxious to avoid House's ministrations. His head hurt like the devil and he wanted to be free of these people so that he could think, but the only way to achieve that would be to feign well-being.
Skynner hoisted him to his feet and placed him in a chair. ‘Always a good idea to sit on the culprit,’ he said, with an encouraging grin. Vredech gave him a puzzled look. The Keeper patted the arm of the chair. ‘Banged your head on the way down by the look of it,’ he said.
Vredech nodded very slowly.
'It's lucky Keeper Skynner came along,’ House intervened, unhappy at being on the edges of this event. ‘I was just going to bed. I wouldn't have found you until the morning. Frightened me to death, you did. And I couldn't have lifted you on my own.’ She turned to Skynner, gathering momentum. ‘I've been telling him for weeks now to take more care of himself, not to work so hard. He's not been eating, not been sleeping properly. He should go and see ...'
'Thank you, House,’ Vredech managed, in the hope of stemming the pending torrent of concerns. ‘All's well now. Let's be thankful that Ishryth guided Serjeant Skynner to our door when I was in need.'
'Thus let it be,’ House intoned with a small but very respectful bow, just restraining herself from circling her hand over her heart.
Vredech levered himself forward in the chair and wet the cloth again. House was hovering by him as he wrung it out and lifted it gingerly back to his bruised head. Her hands were fidgeting nervously. Vredech reached up and took hold of them. ‘Don't fret,’ he said kindly. ‘I'm all right now, truly. I just lost my balance reaching for something and tumbled off my chair, that's all.’ She looked down at him unhappily. As she was about to speak again, his eye lit upon the dinner plate that had fallen when he had. He frowned. ‘I'm sorry about the mess.'
Thankful for a simple practicality to attend to, House fluttered. ‘I'll clean it up right away, Brother,’ she said. She could not leave her complaint unvoiced, however, and as she was leaving the room she said, ‘But it'd have been better if you'd eaten it in the first place.’ She could be heard muttering to herself as she walked down the hallway.
Skynner was grinning. ‘I didn't realize you were married, Brother,’ he said, after a moment.
Vredech held out his hand. ‘Enough,’ he commanded, with a grimace and such priestly firmness as his aching head would allow. ‘Now, what can I do for you?'
House returned before Skynner could reply and for a few minutes the two men were bustled to one side while she fulfilled her duties, zealously and efficiently sweeping up the debris of Vredech's fall. Vredech mustered his best smile of reassurance and thanks when he eventually dismissed her. As soon as she had gone, however, he leaned back in the chair wearily and pressed the cloth to his head.
Skynner's face became concerned. ‘You never tumbled off your seat,’ he declared. ‘You passed out for some reason. And you look like death. You really should ...'
'Haron, I'm indebted to you for helping me just now,’ Vredech interrupted determinedly. ‘The least you've spared me is the consequences of spending a night on the floor and I'm obliged. You've also probably spared House the heart seizure she'd have had if she'd been alone when she found me lying here in the morning, and I'm even more obliged for that. But I presume you weren't making a social call at this time of night. What can I do for you?'
Skynner looked a little embarrassed. ‘It's awkward, Brother,’ he said. ‘Very awkward, actually.’ He slapped his hands together and shrugged expansively. ‘In fact, I'll leave it. I can come back tomorrow when you've rested.'
'Sit down, Haron,’ Vredech said irritably, indicating a chair. ‘All I'm suffering from is a little overwork, a headache and a mild loss of dignity, none of which is of any great consequence. You, on the other hand, wouldn't have come here at this time on any trivial matter, so tell me what it is then you can get about your business and I can hold my head in peace.'
Untypically, Skynner dithered for a moment, avoiding Vredech's gaze, then he cleared his throat self-consciously and, as though he were giving evidence before the Town Court, he recounted the tale of his meeting with Cassraw earlier that evening.
Vredech listened with increasing disbelief, his concerns about himself fading for the moment. Skynner finished with an uncomfortable statement to the effect that none of this was official, just for his guidance. Confidential...
'I understand,’ Vredech said. ‘I'll mention nothing to anyone without discussing it with you first. But what do you make of it?'
'I've no idea,’ Skynner shrugged. ‘That's why I came here.’ He lowered his voice and looked from side to side uneasily. ‘With all respect, I couldn't avoid the feeling that Brother Cassraw was lying to me—but about what I've no idea. I'm fairly certain that he was quite alone—there was no one else in the alley—and I got the impression that he was very agitated, excited almost.'
There was an awkward pause, both men reluctant to pursue this remark. Skynner changed direction. ‘As for talking about the murder from the pulpit, I don't think the Chapter's going to be too happy. If he actually does it, that is.'
Vredech frowned. ‘Nor do I,’ he said. ‘That kind of thing's just not done. The church has a long tradition of not meddling in temporal matters.’ His face became grim. ‘Since the Court of the Provers, in fact. And for that precise reason—the church is grossly unsuited to running the affairs of the country. I can't imagine what he's thinking about. There's all manner of legal and constitutional pitfalls lying in wait for him, not least his career.'
'The murder's obviously distressed him deeply,’ Skynner said. ‘Perhaps he finds it hard just to stand by and do nothing.'
Vredech made a vague gesture then asked unexpectedly:
'Is it liable to do any good, discussing it in a service?'
Skynner was openly surprised at the question. ‘I can't see it doing any harm with regard to finding the murderer,’ he said after a moment's thought. ‘I still think whoever did it is seriously deranged. We've been through all the man's friends and enemies and found no likely suspects. It's possible that a word from the pulpit—the voice of Ishryth, as it were—might well provoke some response, but ...’ He left the senten
ce unfinished.
Vredech looked at him narrowly. ‘Go on,’ he prompted.
Skynner hesitated. ‘I've no experience of this kind of killing,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I lie awake worrying about it, and I haven't done that in many a year.’ He leaned forward intimately. ‘I try to think about Jarry, and the few others we've got who're—not altogether with us. I try to put myself in their place, think about what could drive them to such a thing.'
'And?'
'I'm little the wiser for it. I know some of them say they hear voices. Some of them simply seem to want attention,’ Skynner went on uncertainly. ‘As I said, a plea from the pulpit might well provoke a response—but it might not be the response we want.'
It took Vredech a moment to understand. ‘You mean there might be another killing?’ he said, eyes widening.
Skynner shrugged.
For want of something to do, Vredech damped the cloth again, wringing it out with such force that it hurt his hands. Meticulously he shaped it into a flat pad and, wincing slightly, returned it to his bruised head.
'I shouldn't have burdened you with this,’ Skynner said hurriedly, making to stand up. ‘It's all conjecture. And it's Brother Cassraw's problem after all, not yours.'
Vredech motioned him back into his seat. ‘Brother Cassraw's problem is the church's problem, and that makes it mine also,’ he said.
But Skynner was not to be persuaded. ‘No, Brother,’ he said. ‘I mustn't stay any longer, I've still got my rounds to do. Besides, I need to think about this some more—perhaps sleep on it.’ He looked down at Vredech. ‘If you'll forgive a word of advice from someone who's not only cracked heads himself but who's had his own head cracked more than a few times, you'll do the same. Let your body get on with its healing—it's wiser than any amount of physic.'
Vredech protested, but within minutes of saying farewell to the Serjeant Keeper, he was preparing to go to bed. Only when he was actually in bed did he realize that it was the momentum of years of habit that had carried him there. He had been so preoccupied with the injury to his head and with Skynner's bizarre tale about Cassraw that he had forgotten the fear of sleeping that had been dogging him for weeks now.
And, indeed, as he lay there, his concern for his sanity returning, he realized that for some reason it had lost much of its force. His earlier intuitions had been right. Something was grievously amiss, something deeply mysterious and frightening. It had come on the day that the black clouds had loomed over the land like Judgement Day, and lured Cassraw up towards their heart. He recalled with extraordinary vividness the cold alien presence that had touched him amid the dancing shadows and, too, Cassraw's condition when he had first emerged from the darkness: the gleam in his eye, the authority of his manner—the arrogance! And then, seemingly, it had all vanished after his strange collapse and equally strange awakening. But had it disappeared? Since then, Cassraw had been like a strained copy of the man he had been many years before: efficient, diligent, hard-working, filling his Meeting House with the power of his preaching. What was there to be faulted in this? Vredech had no answer, but the Whistler's words rang in his ears.
'He'll be plotting, thinking, deceiving, seeking power.'
Then too, he recalled, ‘He's one of you. A priest—hung about already with an aura of carnage—drawing it in, feeding on it.'
What had Cassraw been doing in that awful alley? Excited, Skynner said he had been. Vredech closed his eyes as if the darkness of the room was insufficient to hide the thoughts that were coming to him. Part of him wanted to thrust them away, but another carried with it the open curiosity that had pervaded him when he had been in the presence of the Whistler. Had this awful figure of which the Whistler had spoken, taken possession of Cassraw? Certainly the Cassraw who had strode down the mountain had been charged with some great resolution. And, on being opposed at the door of the Debating Hall, had he not retreated from immediate exposure, to return later, patience renewed, to plot and scheme in silence?
Reproaches filled Vredech's mind, but he ploughed relentlessly on. Cassraw's apology to the Chapter had restored their goodwill towards him in its entirety. The vision of Cassraw surrounded by the Chapter Brothers—himself included—almost like acolytes, as they had been leaving the Witness House, returned to complete the picture for him.
It could be, Vredech decided, that he was being unjust—perhaps even obsessively so. Seeing things which simply were not there. Motivated perhaps by some hidden jealousy of his friend. But it could do no conceivable harm to watch, to listen, to think—could it? And perhaps the Whistler was nothing more than a figment of his imagination, yet there had been an honesty in their last encounter that seemed to have washed away many of his torments, even though he had been given no easy comfort. Here also, what harm could be done by pondering this meeting, this vividly intense meeting?
He smiled to himself. It could not have been real, of course. This was real: blankets, sheets, pillows, familiar sounds and smells, Skynner, House, a whole lifetime of memories. Yet, as he was hovering halfway between sleeping and waking, and his hand came up to lie on the pillow by his face, was there not a faint hint of the scented evening flower that the Whistler had given to him on the hillside?
The question barely formed itself before he slipped into sleep.
That night he found himself dreaming again, or visiting someone else's dream. He was, and was not, the dreamer. At once a spectator and a participant. Strange images came and went; bizarre, illogical events unfolded quite sensibly. But now he was unconcerned. He was quieter. He would watch and listen, and learn. To debate reality too closely was to pick healthy flesh until it became the open wound that was feared in the first place. He would be what he was, where he was. He would not be afraid of the darkness that stood where his ability to measure the natural ended.
When he woke the following morning, Vredech's headache was gone, although the bruise was still tender, and he was relaxed and rested. He got out of bed slowly and performed his rising habits with a gentle delight as though they had been part of one of the sacred ceremonies of Ishrythan. As indeed perhaps they were, he thought.
He offered a silent prayer of thanks to Ishryth for giving him the strength to learn.
Then he ate a substantial and smiling breakfast to appease the stern and searching eye of the goddess of his hearth.
* * * *
Cassraw stared out across the crowded Meeting House. It was good. Every place on the stern upright benches was full, people were actually sitting in the three aisles, and the open space at the back of the hall was crowded. Through the open doors beyond, he could see the heads of many others craning to see and to hear what he was about to say. Pride surged through him. No one—no one—had filled a Meeting House like this since the great days of Ishrythan when attendance had been a matter of law, and failure to do so a matter to be accounted for before the Court of the Provers.
Very slowly he looked across the entire congregation, as if to impose his will on each member of it individually. An unusually high number were robed and hooded, following the old tradition that worshippers should enter the church in humility and free from all outward show of vanity. They added a mysterious dignity to the atmosphere of the place. Of those who were unhooded, he recognized many of his own flock, but for each of these there must have been two strange faces. Laggard attenders from his own parish? People from other parishes? Even some foreigners, judging by their dress. But it did not matter. Nor did it matter whether they were drawn by the rumour of what he was about to say, or by his rapidly spreading fame as a great preacher. It mattered only that they were here, because in being here, they were his. For he was the Chosen One and this was his Meeting House, and what was said and done here was determined by him and him alone. All who came to listen would be brought to know that, and would lay themselves open to receive His word. They would learn that they must sacrifice their own petty concerns and desires for the greater good, for the restoring of the church of Ishrythan
to its former splendour and power, so that His will might once again sweep out across the world and bring order to all.
Something inside him stirred in expectation.
'Great is Thy power, Lord,’ Cassraw said.
'Thus let it be,’ the congregation intoned.
Cassraw's prayer had been a spontaneous utterance, not the beginning of the peroration he had been intending. Nor had it been spoken with the power that he knew he could use to overwhelm a large audience. The congregation's response therefore was totally unexpected. Its ragged but massive power rolled over him like a great wave, and for a moment he felt as if he were drowning in it. Panic swept through him; his planned words fled. He was going to be left gaping and foolish before this mob, this motley assortment.
He had been abandoned!
And as if to accentuate his peril, his eye lit on Privv, leaning against the wall at the back of the hall. He was here for one reason only, to find something to write in his Sheet. Cassraw knew only too well that though he might at the moment have secured Privv as an ally, it was an uncertain alliance, and a rambling, incoherent performance now would see him doubly damned—once before this immediate congregation and again through the successive distorting lenses of the Sheets as the tale was told and retold through the following days. Then he saw Albor standing near to Privv. Difficult to recognize out of his Keeper's uniform, he stood expectant and respectful, but to Cassraw he felt like the hard focus of this entire happening; the solitary speck about which it had all coalesced. He could willingly have cursed him into oblivion for his unknowing part in the gathering of this crowd.
Cassraw's hand tightened purposefully about the rail that fringed the pulpit while he fought to regain control of himself. Years of experience held him motionless, save for his eyes as they continued their now sightless examination of the congregation. Not the slightest indication of his inner turmoil radiated from him.