Roger Taylor - Whistler

Cassraw’s response was an authoritative gesture, which motioned everyone towards the Witness House. A frown flickered across Mueran’s face at this cavalier action, but he turned with the rest and, after a short, none too dignified sprint, caught up with Cassraw who was now striding out boldly, his flock abandoned.

Once inside the Witness House, Cassraw maintained the same vigorous pace in the direction of the Debating Hall, drawing the group after him, noisy but too flustered to question him. He seemed to be gathering energy with every step. Mueran was no longer even trying to keep up with him, and kept looking around anxiously for fear that any novices or servants might have strayed from their carefully allotted tasks and be witnessing this scuttling procession. From time to time he lifted his hand as if he were about to call out to Cassraw, but no sound came.

Suddenly, Vredech had had enough. Tired and drained after the ordeal of struggling up the mountain through the darkness, and the strain of the bizarre descent, his patience abruptly evaporated. He ran forward as Cassraw reached the Debating Hall and, stepping in front of him, placed his hand firmly on the door.

‘Enough, Cassraw. Enough.’ He was out of breath but his voice was nevertheless powerful and angry. The others fell silent. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing, or even if you know what you’re doing, but some of us who came out to find you are in a sorry state as a result. They need rest and attention now.’ He looked Cassraw up and down and his tone softened. ‘As do you, for pity’s sake. Whatever’s keeping you on your feet, there’ll be a price to pay if you don’t get some rest.’ Without waiting for a reply he turned to Mueran. ‘Warm food and a fire, you said. Where?’

Mueran nodded hesitantly. ‘In the Guest Room, next to the Refectory. I…’

‘Then let’s get up there,’ Vredech interrupted. ‘Let’s wait until we’re cleaned up and fed and we’ve got some normality around us again before we do any talking about what’s happened here.’

Several voices spoke out in agreement.

‘Of course,’ Mueran said. ‘You’re quite right, Brother Vredech. We must…’

‘No!’ Cassraw had not moved since Vredech had stepped in front of him. Now, as his voice rang out, his frame became alive with agitation. Vredech winced away from the sound which had been spoken directly into his face, but immediately returned his gaze to meet Cassraw’s.

‘There are things which you must know,’ Cassraw went on, apparently addressing everyone present but still speaking directly and forcefully into Vredech’s face. ‘Matters of great import. Matters concerning…’

‘Enough, I said, Cassraw!’ Vredech shouted. ‘And I mean it. You’ve caused enough problems today. You’re not well – you need rest. We all need rest.’

Cassraw’s eyes suddenly blazed and he reached past Vredech to take hold of the handle of the door to the Debating Hall. For an instant, as he stared into his old friend’s black eyes, Vredech felt that he was looking into the very heart of the darkness that had loomed so terribly over them that day. The memory of the dancing shadows and the menacing presence that had reached into him flitted around the edges of his consciousness, threatening to bring with it the babbling host of questions that so far he had been able to hold at bay. But, as during the final part of his journey up the mountain, something else stirred within him, something deep and resolute. And then there was no Mueran, no Brothers, no Witness Hall. Nothing except himself and Cassraw.

And while Cassraw was his friend, he must nonetheless be opposed.

Will against will.

No reason sustained this knowledge. It was simply a truth.

He must not yield.

But it was not a raging power that came to him. He simply said, ‘No,’ very softly. ‘As I love you, my old friend. No.’

And he was once again standing outside the Debating Hall, suddenly noisy now with his fellow Brothers rushing forward to catch the falling Cassraw.

‘The people’s faith is our charge,’ Mueran said at the hastily-convened meeting that followed Cassraw’s collapse into unconsciousness. ‘We must do what we can to protect the church. News that one of our Brothers has become… deranged, because he may have been burdened with too much too soon will give rise to great doubts and distress amongst our flocks.’ Then he struck nearer to his true thinking. ‘And who can say what the Sheeters will make of it? The truth’s going to present us with enough problems, let alone what they’ll say. The last thing we need is any more controversy about the Haven Parish.’

His assessment of Cassraw’s condition was not accepted unopposed however.

‘Cassraw’s not deranged, he’s possessed,’ Laffran declared harshly. ‘Some servant of Ahmral has entered into him.’

There was uproar around the table, but Vredech, normally a vigorous opponent of such opinions, remained strangely silent even though many heads were turned towards him expectantly.

By default, Mueran spoke on his behalf. ‘Those are precisely the kind of remarks we must avoid, Brother Laffran,’ he said. ‘Possession is an area fraught with difficulty, not least because even today it still carries with it lingering memories of… less happy times.’ This was Mueran’s euphemism for the time of the Court of the Provers, when methods of appalling brutality had been used in the search for Ahmral’s servants. A dark time, when the church had been at once more powerful and less civilized, a time before reason had fought its way through to curb the excesses of superstition. An institution set up by the church to protect the faith and maintain its purity, the Court of the Provers had eventually led to the persecution of thousands for the least of deviations from the True Way. It had finally been swept aside by the forces of an increasingly nervous secular state empowered by a sickened populace, but its name lingered as a byword for terror, sadism and savagery, and all that is foul in human nature. It was an era that the modern church of Ishryth earnestly disowned though it was still apt to become overly defensive when reluctantly drawn into debates about it.

Laffran made to interrupt but Mueran ploughed on. ‘I’m not going to allow a discussion on that matter now,’ he said, with uncharacteristic firmness. ‘The church’s position is quite clear. The Santyth is, at best, ambiguous on the matter and we favour the search for rational causes for sickness before we invoke Ahmral’s personal intervention.’

Though Mueran was merely stating the church’s official view on such matters, he was far from happy. Laffran’s remark could pitch the gathering into the deepest theological waters and he desperately wanted to keep their discussion on the simple pragmatic level of a sick colleague presenting an awkward administrative problem.

He was spared any further debate by the entry of Morem, who had been attending to Cassraw. He went straight to his seat, dropped down in it heavily and put his face in his hands. When he looked up he started a little, as if surprised to find himself where he was.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was preoccupied.’

Mueran’s concerns were not eased by Morem’s manner. ‘How is Brother Cassraw?’ he asked, only just managing to keep his voice calm.

Morem frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He’s covered in cuts and bruises. Presumably he must have fallen over a good number of times when he was going up the mountain, but he’s suffered no blows to the head or anything else that I can see that should affect him this way.’

Laffran cleared his throat noisily, his jaw taut. Mueran glowered at him. ‘Could he just be exhausted?’ he tried hopefully.