Whistler [A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan] Read online

  'Jarold,’ he called out. ‘What's the matter?'

  Jarry lowered the bottle from his lips and began looking from side to side frantically. Vredech took a deep breath and walked up to him.

  'What's the matter?’ he asked again, looking into the distant, fearful eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot with the spirits that Jarry had been drinking. Anger flashed, brilliant, in Vredech's mind. Whoever had done this needed horse-whipping! He set the rage aside quickly lest Jarry, his senses never dull, and perhaps heightened now by whatever had made him start drinking, might feel it and respond badly. It was he however, who detected Jarry's mood, as a great wave of terror flooded over him. Vredech felt tears coming into his eyes.

  'Jarry, don't be afraid. It's me,’ he said, a little hoarsely. ‘Brother Vredech. Don't you recognize me?'

  There was a long pause, then a crash that made him start violently. Jarry had dropped the bottle which had shattered on the cobbles in a glittering spray of liquor and broken glass. Almost before Vredech could register what had happened, Jarry was standing in front of him, his huge hands resting heavily on his shoulders. Ironically, Jarry's movement was so fast that Vredech did not have time to be frightened. The big man bent forward and peered blearily into Vredech's face, searching. Vredech tried not to flinch away from the stink of spirits on Jarry's breath. Then, abruptly, Jarry was looking past him and his expression was changing—becoming vicious and angry. Vredech glanced quickly over the great hand holding his shoulder to see a group of Keepers closing rapidly, obviously fearing that he was being attacked.

  'Go back. There's no problem. I'm all right,’ he shouted, though more in hope than certainty.

  The group hesitated. Vredech felt Jarry's hands shifting on his shoulders; he was about to release him, presumably with the intention of moving to attack the Keepers. He seized one of the great hands as strongly as he could and shouted, ‘No!’ loudly and commandingly into Jarry's face, following it with another earnest appeal to his would-be rescuers. ‘Go back, quickly. Get out of sight. Now! You're only going to make him angry.'

  With some reluctance the Keepers did as he asked, and as soon as they started to move back Vredech returned his attention to Jarry. He tried shaking the hand he was holding, to draw Jarry's menacing gaze away from the retreating Keepers, but it had no effect that he could see. Rather it seemed that he was merely succeeding in shaking himself, so solid was Jarry's posture. Despite his growing concern for his own safety, he felt a twinge of sympathy for the Keepers who might have to subdue this skull-crushing power if he failed. No wonder they had drawn their batons!

  Then Jarry was talking. Gabbling nonsense at him, his hands opening and closing painfully about his shoulders. ‘Stop it, Jarry, you're hurting me,’ Vredech said, still managing to sound authoritative in spite of the fear that was coming to him in earnest now. In desperation, he placed a hand under each of Jarry's wrists and pushed upwards in an attempt to ease the pressure. It succeeded partially, though he felt his knees start to buckle under the strain. Unused to physical contact, still less violence, he wanted to shout and bellow to make this ludicrous conflict stop, but from somewhere a wiser inspiration came. ‘Enough, Jarry,’ he said, very softly and gently. ‘Enough, you're hurting me. You don't want to do that, do you? I'm your friend, remember? See, the Keepers have gone. Let go of me so that we can talk properly. Then you can tell me what's the matter.'

  As he had hoped, it was the tone rather than his words that reached through to his antagonist. The hands slid off him. His legs, suddenly unburdened, felt unsteady and he took hold of Jarry's arm momentarily for support. Jarry stared at him again, flickers of recognition coming into his blinking eyes. Then there was only fear again. His mouth opened to emit a cry that voiced it clearly. Vredech winced at the man's pain. He reached up and took the great head in his two hands. ‘You're safe, Jarry,’ he said into the din. ‘No one's going to hurt you. Listen to me. No one's going to hurt you.'

  Jarry's arms rose up and waved about in denial. ‘He's here,’ he said, his voice shaking, but quite clear. The unexpected lucidity made Vredech start.

  'Who is?’ he asked simply.

  Jarry shot a fearful glance upwards, then bent forward, bringing his face so close to Vredech's as to be almost touching it. ‘He is,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Him.'

  Vredech shook his head. ‘I don't understand,’ he said. ‘Who's here? Has someone been frightening you?'

  Jarry let out a pitiful whimper, then looked at the hand in which he had been holding the bottle. His eyes became lost and vacant.

  'It's gone, Jarry,’ Vredech said. ‘You dropped the bottle and it broke. Anyway, you know it's not good for you. It only gets you into trouble.’ He wanted to ask who had given it to him, but even if Jarry could remember, it was unlikely that he would divulge the name of his benefactor, and what Jarry needed now was to talk, not to retreat into some haunted silence. ‘Why did you start drinking, Jarry?’ he asked instead. ‘You haven't done it for a long time.'

  'Drink. Drink,’ Jarry said, looking at his empty hand, then at Vredech. ‘Must have a drink.’ He was becoming very agitated. Fighting an increasingly powerful urge to flee, Vredech held his ground.

  'No,’ he said unequivocally. ‘No drink. It's bad for you. You'll get hurt and you'll hurt other people, and you don't want that, do you?'

  'No. No. Jarry not hurt. Drink.'

  'Why?'

  Jarry lowered his head and started squeezing his hands together fretfully.

  Vredech laid his own hands on top of them and bent forward to look into Jarry's face. ‘Why?’ he asked again, gently.

  'Hide. Jarry hide.’ Then, explosively, he let out a great cry and threw his arms into the air, sending Vredech reeling. As he staggered to regain his balance, Vredech caught sight of the Keepers racing across the Square towards him, batons waving. At the same time he saw that Jarry was standing motionless, his hand wrapped over the top of his head. Scarcely thinking what he was doing, but knowing that no command of his would stop the Keepers attempting to restrain Jarry, with all that that meant, he lunged forward and placed himself between them and the swaying Jarry.

  He held out his hands protectively. ‘I'm all right,’ he shouted. ‘Leave him. It was just a misunderstanding.’ He caught Skynner's eye. ‘Please, Haron. Please!'

  'He's dangerous when he's like this Brother,’ Skynner replied heatedly. ‘You nearly measured your length on the cobbles just then. I can't ...'

  'He's here. Jarry hide. Jarry hide.'

  Jarry's cry interrupted him. It was followed by a moaning cry that was so pitiful that even some of the hardened Keepers looked distressed by it. Vredech, still holding out a hand to fend off his would-be defenders, turned back to him. Jarry's face was now buried in his arms. Skynner motioned his men back a little.

  'He's going down,’ one of them whispered, infected by Vredech's concern.

  And even as he spoke, Jarry sank slowly to his knees, then, his hands still wrapped about his head, he bent forward, as if to make himself as small as possible. His keening continued steadily. Vredech knelt beside him. As he did so he noticed that the watching crowd was growing bolder in its curiosity and starting to move forward. He gave Skynner a significant nod in their direction and he immediately dispatched his men to send the sightseers on their way.

  Vredech could do no other than put his arms around Jarry and make soothing noises. ‘You're safe now. No one's going to hurt you. No need to hide.’ All he received by way of reply, though, was the undiminished moaning.

  'What's the matter with him?'

  Vredech looked up to see Privv standing nearby, being prevented from coming any closer by a Keeper's baton. Vredech turned away to hide the distaste on his face. He knew Privv of old as a result of some indiscretions by members of his flock and, despite his religious principles, he found it hard not to despise him and other Sheeters of his ilk, who wilfully peddled anything that was hurtful and claimed it as a precious civic trust. He had heard abo
ut Privv's antics at the Witness House and, like Horld, viewed them with the utmost suspicion. And, though he could not have said why, he had been unsettled by the news that Cassraw had talked to the wretched man so freely.

  'Someone gave him some drink,’ he said. A malicious sprite rose inside him and he turned back towards Privv. ‘It wasn't you, was it?’ he asked, his face stern. He took some pleasure in Privv's slight start. Don't like your own tricks, do you? he thought. But the Sheeter recovered on the instant and affected a hurt look.

  'Why would I do such a thing?’ he asked, eyes wide. Vredech did not reply but turned back to tending the downed Jarry.

  'Move on, sir,’ the Keeper said. ‘There's nothing for you here.'

  Privv took no notice. ‘What was he babbling on about before?’ he asked Vredech around the ushering arm of the Keeper.

  'Go away, Privv,’ Vredech sighed. ‘There's nothing for you here—just a poor unfortunate soul who's been frightened by something he's imagined. He'll be all right shortly, if he's left alone.'

  Privv wrinkled his nose thoughtfully, then shrugged and walked away, his thoughts turning to how he could describe the incident and still cast a discreetly bad light on this surly preacher. Vredech had always been a nuisance. He was a Chapter Member, for pity's sake; he shouldn't talk to people like that just for doing their jobs! Privv searched the dispersing crowd for familiar faces from whom he could get the full story of what had happened here. He often found that the truth was quite useful as a starting point for a good story.

  Privv was already far from Vredech's mind as he turned his attention back to the still motionless, whimpering Jarry. As he looked at him, a large drop of rain splattered a dark star noisily on the cobbles at his feet. Jarry started as if there had been a thunderclap. His eyes widened as he saw the wet stain, now being joined by others. Tentatively he reached out and touched it with the end of his forefinger. His hand jerked away convulsively.

  'Come on, Jarry,’ Vredech was saying. ‘Let's get you home. It's starting to rain.'

  But Jarry was rubbing his finger, as if he were trying to wipe something particularly unpleasant or painful off it. He kept glancing up at the sky and Vredech noticed that he was trembling.

  'He's here,’ he said in a childish whisper. He brought his finger close to his face to examine it. ‘He was up there. Now He's down here.’ Vredech could do no other than look upwards, but there was nothing to be seen except the grey clouds and the dancing black dots of rain falling towards his upturned face.

  'Who is?’ he asked awkwardly. ‘Who's here? Who's frightening you like this?'

  Skynner returned and crouched down beside him. He spoke softly. ‘The rain'll shift the rest of the audience. Have you found out what's the matter with him yet?'

  Vredech shook his head. ‘I'll get him home, if I can. He might tell me about it, if he remembers when he's recovered.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But he's scared to death of something ... or someone.'

  Skynner shrugged. ‘It's a great pity he's not more scared of me,’ he said with rueful practicality. ‘Still, he seems quiet enough now. If you're happy about him I can leave you a couple of lads to help, but I'll have to get the rest of them back to their duties. A little disruption like this is all some of them need to quietly disappear for an hour or so.'

  A hand plucked at Vredech's sleeve before he could reply. It was Jarry's. As he caught the big man's gaze he noticed for the first time that his eyes, like his own and Cassraw's, were black. ‘I saw Him rising to fill the sky, His great night cloak swallowing up the holy mountain and covering the whole land. I heard His cries turn from despair to rejoicing, a terrible rejoicing, as I travelled the dream ways.’ He clawed at Vredech's arm. ‘Horrible. Horrible. And now He walks amongst us again.'

  Taken aback by this unexpected burst of eloquence, Vredech could merely ask, ‘Who, Jarry?'

  Jarry swallowed, as if the words were likely to choke him.

  'Ahmral, Brother. Ahmral,’ he said, very softly.

  Skynner chuckled and reached down to help the big man to his feet. He winked at Vredech. ‘Don't fret yourself about that, Jarry,’ he said. ‘You're not the first person to see the devil when he's had a drink too many.'

  Vredech said nothing. Jarry's words had transported him back to the previous day when he, too, alone in the darkness, had heard a terrible rejoicing. And when he, too, in his fear had cried out, ‘Leave me, Ahmral's spawn. Leave me.'

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Troidmallos quickly settled back into its normal routine. Or apparently so. The mysterious cloud with its threat of a terrible storm that never came soon lost its worth as a topic of conversation and speculation, not least because the weather generally began to improve. Winter had its occasional dying fling but, on the whole, grey skies became bluer, and cold, damp winds became warmer and drier. Then a faint green sheen began to appear on trees and bushes, announcing that spring was definitely on its way. The church held to the line that Cassraw had gone out for a walk to refresh himself after a long meeting and had fallen when the light suddenly deteriorated. The Chapter was remarkably unified in its silence about the real reason for his angry departure from the Witness House, his odd behaviour when he reappeared, and his even stranger collapse and recovery. Privv had the deepest reservations about what had happened, scenting closed ranks and secrecy with the sensitivity of a dog scenting a bitch on heat, but Cassraw's open admission of the events left him virtually nothing to work on. And he was loath to fabricate anything too fanciful for fear of losing that intangible thread of goodwill that had prompted Cassraw to talk to him and which, he was sure, could be woven into a rope of rare value with care and time.

  As for Jarry's escapade, in the absence of a spectacular and violent conclusion, that merely provided a sour little item in one or two of the less widely read Sheets.

  But changes had occurred. A subtle tide was starting to run, for many bizarre things had happened during the night following Cassraw's mysterious transformation. People had suffered vivid dreams: some, appalling and fearful, others, full of the promise of unsettling desires. Others claimed to have heard noises—unworldly singing, eerie chanting, even screaming. And some said they saw ... things ... flitting about the streets—dark things, like shadows, but with no one there to cast them. A handful of these tales were picked up by the Sheeters, mistold and forgotten except by those involved, but far more people were touched that night than chose to talk about it, and in all of those the memory of the experience lingered ... and lingered.

  Only the Preaching Brothers had any measure of what had happened as, one after another, members of their flocks—some guiltily, some bewildered, many frightened—trooped in for hesitant discussions about this and that until they plucked up courage to talk about what they had really come for—a dream, a vision, a sighting. But the Preaching Brothers did not meet one another very often and, in any event, had no reason to discuss such pastoral matters even though some of them had been distinctly peculiar. Thus the measure they had of this tide went unnoticed.

  And it swelled, unheeded.

  Besides, more serious things were afoot. A respected Madren merchant, travelling abroad, had been murdered.

  Canol Madreth's immediate westerly neighbour was Tirfelden. Larger and more populous than Canol Madreth, Tirfelden was also a livelier place by far. Not that this was always to the advantage of its citizens. A few decades previously it had emerged from a long period of tyranny and oppression and since then had enjoyed a system of government not dissimilar to that of Canol Madreth, except that where the Madren had some three major political parties, the Felden had no less than fifteen ... or seventeen, or thirteen, etc ... depending on the pacts, coalitions, alliances and realignments that were current at any one time. Further, the Felden, who lived beyond the constant sobering presence of the central mountains and away from the aegis of a stern religion, were generally a more flamboyant people than the Madren, and very apt to act first and think after
wards. Whether this was the cause of their long tradition of violent changes of government or the effect of it cannot really be determined, but they did not hesitate to take to the streets whenever the government of the day was doing something unpopular.

  In the absence of any brutal oppression from above to unite the people, this form of political enthusiasm usually manifested itself in street fighting between the many factions that were constantly clamouring for ‘fair and even treatment'.

  The Madren viewed the Felden with some disdain while the Felden viewed them in their turn as sour faced, humourless and obsessively religious. Nevertheless, business was business, and there was some trade between the two countries, mainly in timber. This enabled the Madren to exchange some of their dark forests for iron and associated products which the Felden mined and worked.

  It was in connection with this trade that two Madren merchants were in Tirfelden at a time when feelings were running high over some proposed legislation. Heady with the openness of Tirfelden society, which made the strictures of their homeland seem particularly suffocating, the two men had sought entertainment in a local inn and, being unused to the potency and uncontrolled availability of the Tirfelden ale, had ill-advisedly ventured into a particularly heated argument. When this resulted in their being abused and generally held to scorn along with their country and their religion, they had retorted in kind and, in the ensuing mêlée, one man had been killed and the other badly hurt.

  The response of the Tirfelden authorities to this incident was less than satisfactory as far as the Madren were concerned. Strong in hypocrisy themselves, they were particularly sensitive to it in others and the expressions of regret and horror that they received were deemed to be markedly lacking in sincerity, particularly as little or no attempt appeared to have been made to find the offenders—allegedly some of the more volatile supporters of the then dominant government party. They considered their suspicions confirmed when the incident became a matter of debate in the Tirfelden Congress.