Roger Taylor - Whistler

Vredech looked away from Darke and caught Tirec’s eye. Though the younger man was striving to hide it, there was fear in his eyes, and Tirec did not give the impression of a man who frightened easily. Slowly, Vredech lowered his head and closed his eyes.

‘In your travels, have you ever heard of a man called the Whistler?’ he asked into the darkness. ‘A legend – a story, perhaps?’

He was aware of Darke shifting awkwardly beside him. ‘I’ve heard all manner of tales about pipers, flute-players, whistlers, in different places. In some he walks in dreams, in others he walks strange worlds, worlds like this but in some way beyond, his tunes building the bridges between, or binding them together. Some say he’s mad, some say he’s a great righter of wrongs, a fighter of evil. Some tell of him as a man trapped in his own dream.’

‘Are there worlds beyond this, Traveller?’ Vredech asked. ‘Worlds around us that are here, yet not here?’

There was a long silence.

‘I’ve heard it said so, and by people wiser than me by far,’ Darke replied eventually. ‘It’s a disturbing thought, enough to shake any man’s sanity. Why do you ask?’

Vredech did not reply, but let out a long breath. Then he opened his eyes and looked up. A small flurry of raindrops cascaded from the leaves above. Most fell on the grass at his feet, twinkling momentarily despite the dullness, but a few fell cold on his hair. He ran his hand over them.

It occurred to him that he had slipped into another world again and that the two men were of his own creating. But did it matter? he thought. No harm had come to him previously from such excursions. Indeed, on the last occasion it had perhaps saved Nertha from some dreadful fate and, in involving Horld, much good had come of it. He could see now that, each time, he had come away a little wiser. Suddenly, it was as though a keystone had fallen into place, locking together disparate and unstable parts into a solid whole. He was in the world he had always known. And he would know in future when it was otherwise, though he could not have defined the source of this new certainty.

Then, without preamble, he told Darke and Tirec what had happened on the mountain and since. He made no mention of his own pain or of his meetings with the Whistler, and he spoke in unconscious imitation of Darke, simply and straightforwardly.

As he talked, he saw the fear in Tirec’s eyes grow, and pain appear in Darke’s. When he had finished, they both remained silent.

‘I’ve thought myself mad on more than one occasion these past months,’ Vredech admitted, ‘battling endlessly with screaming doubts.’ Then, slowly, he asked, ‘What does this mean to you?’

Neither replied for some time, then Tirec stood up and began pacing fretfully. He spoke to Darke in his own language, though the strangeness of it could not disguise the fear-driven anger that filled it.

Darke looked at him, then very gently said, ‘Of course it’s true. We’ve known it all along.’ He rubbed his shoulder again. ‘We’ve just not had the courage to accept it.’

Tirec seemed disposed to argue the point, but Darke motioned him to sit. ‘And speak Madren in front of Brother Vredech,’ he said, with a hint of sternness. Tirec sat down heavily.

Vredech waited. He was about to repeat his question when Darke began to speak. ‘In our land, we know of the one you call Ishryth,’ he said.

Vredech could not contain his surprise. ‘You worship as we do?’ he asked.

Darke smiled, rather sadly Vredech thought, and shook his head. ‘No, we accord all things respect, in so far as we are able, but we worship nothing and no one.’

‘But…’

Darke held up his hand for silence.

‘This may be hard for you,’ he said, ‘but it’s known that from the Great Heat at the beginning of this world, Ishryth and his three companions – the Watchers, I think you call them – emerged and, through a time that we cannot measure, shaped the world as we know it, and all that’s in it.’

‘“Known”?’ Vredech queried, briefly a theologian again. ‘Believed, surely.’

Darke shook his head. ‘Known,’ he confirmed. ‘As certainly as anything past can be known. There are unbroken lines of recorded thought back through the ages to the time when he walked amongst men.’

Vredech was suddenly alarmed. Was he dealing with people whose religious beliefs were as primitive and simplistic as those to which Cassraw was reverting?

‘I see your doubts,’ Darke went on, ‘and I understand them. Just accept what I say for the time being. There’s a body of knowledge available which will withstand your finest scholarship, believe me. We’re a clear-sighted and inquiring people.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘But that’s by the by. Suffice it that Ishryth and his companions existed and did what they did. So also did the creature you call Ahmral. It’s said that He, too, came from the same Great Heat, but even Ishryth did not know this. What He did is touched on in your Santyth. He took on human form… or perhaps already possessed it… and destroyed Ishryth’s work wherever He could, the focus of His greatest endeavours always being the destruction of life. Men were His most apt pupils, His greatest allies.’

‘And in the Last Battle He ventured forth amid the pitiless slaughter of men by men, seeking to slay Ishryth, unarmed and at prayer. But around their Lord stood a circle of his Chosen, barbed sharp with spear and sword, and seeing it, Ahmral faltered and was brought low. And with the passing of His body so was His spirit scattered. Yet His teachings lingered.’

Darke nodded in response to Vredech’s quotation from the Santyth. ‘That is from what you call the Lesser Books, is it not?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Vredech replied. ‘Its origins are uncertain and it’s read as an allegory.’

‘It’s no allegory,’ Darke said starkly. ‘It’s substantially accurate.’

Vredech frowned. Darke cut through his thinking. ‘I appreciate you’ve no way of knowing this, but I’m neither simpleton, madman nor jester, Brother Vredech,’ he said, with unexpected authority. ‘I am, however, a long way from home and the people I need to speak to about what’s happening here – the same people who could show you the truth of what I’m going to tell you. And, like Tirec here, I’m also desperately afraid about what we’re discovering.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Vredech said.

‘Say nothing for the moment, just listen,’ Darke replied. As if he could no longer contain it, strain showed suddenly on his face. ‘Ask whatever questions you wish when I’ve finished.’

‘Very well,’ Vredech said, though with some reluctance.

Darke began. ‘Several years ago, through a combination of evil chances and, sadly, our neglect, Ahmral rose again. Took mortal form again.’ Vredech’s eyes widened but he managed to stay silent. ‘And too, His ancient lieutenants – those you call the Uleryn – were roused. They were out in the world raising armies to free Him from the bleak land where we unwittingly surrounded Him, before it was discovered what had happened.’ He paused before continuing, though whether to marshal his thoughts or to contain some powerful emotion, Vredech could not tell. ‘I’ll spare you the details, but in the end, like a faint echo of earlier times, an alliance was formed and battles were fought and He and His Uleryn were destroyed.’ Then in a tone that cut through Vredech in its pain, ‘As we thought.’

Vredech wanted to be able to laugh out loud into the silence that followed; to dismiss this rambling nonsense out of hand, to declare these two strangers obviously deranged. But Darke’s telling had wrapped about him like a damp, clinging sheet, binding him, chilling him, with an awful certainty.