Roger Taylor: Whistler

Whatever the truth, the Ervrin Mallos had an aura of deep stillness and mystery about it which had led to its being chosen as the site for the spiritual and administrative centre of Ishrythan: the Witness House. Situated halfway up the mountain, the Witness House was where the Preaching Brothers were taught, and where they returned from time to time for periods of fasting and re-affirmation. Here, too, all matters of theology were debated and decided, as were any matters of a more secular nature associated with the management of a state religion.

And as the dark storm clouds rose relentlessly in the northern sky, a particularly acrimonious debate was nearing its conclusion within the Witness House. For though the Preaching Brothers all wore the same dark garb, and though the Meeting Houses that were to be found in every Madren community were of the same simple and sombre grey-stoned architecture, Ishrythan was not totally free from internal dissension. The Santyth, like all religious books, had many passages capable of more than one interpretation.

Cassraw swept out of the Debating Hall, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. The boom of its closing mingled with the tumult of voices that its opening had released and rolled along the stone-floored passageways. Followed by Cassraw’s echoing footsteps, it was as if the clamour were trying to flee the building before its creator.

Two novice brothers pursuing their duties stepped aside hastily as the stocky, scowling figure strode past them. They bowed tentatively but did not appear to be either surprised or offended at receiving no response. They were just starting to whisper to one another when a second figure passed by them, obviously in anxious pursuit.

‘Cassraw, wait!’ Vredech called out as he reached a balcony that overlooked the entrance hall to the Witness House. There was both appeal and urgency in his voice, and Cassraw, halfway across the entrance hall, paused.

‘Please wait,’ Vredech called again.

This time, Cassraw looked up. Vredech leaned forward, resting his hands on the wide stone balustrade. Cassraw was standing at the very centre of an elaborate mosaic pattern that radiated outwards in all directions. As Vredech looked down at his friend, it seemed to him that Cassraw’s dark scowling face had replaced the image of Ishryth that was the focus of the mosaic, and that his anger was flowing out to fill the entire hall. Vredech felt a chill of foreboding rise up inside him, and for a moment was held immobile, like prey before a predator. Then Cassraw’s voice released him, or rather, tore him free.

‘Wait for what?’ he demanded.

Vredech shook his head to dispel the lingering remains of his eerie vision, then, turning, he ran towards the curving stairway. He had no idea what he was going to say when he reached his friend, but was just thankful that he had stopped his flight.

Cassraw watched him as he ran down the stairs.

‘Just wait for me,’ Vredech said lamely, in the absence of any greater inspiration as he walked across to him.

‘For what, Vredech?’ Cassraw repeated impatiently, holding out a hand as if to fend him off.

Vredech’s distress showed on his face and he turned away from the outburst. Guilt seeped into Cassraw’s expression, changing his scowl to a look of irritation. ‘Don’t do this, Vred,’ he said, turning away himself and looking up at the high-domed roof. ‘Deliberately throwing yourself in my way and getting hurt.’

‘How can you hurt…?’

Cassraw rounded on him. ‘I said, don’t!’ he shouted. He pointed in the direction of the Debating Hall. ‘Ishryth knows, you’re my oldest friend and I love you, but they’re wrong – and you’re wrong if you side with them. The Word is the Word.’ He plunged into a pocket of his black cassock and produced a small copy of the Santyth. He slapped the book in emphasis. ‘We reject this at our peril.’

Vredech’s heart sank and he could not keep the exasperation from his voice. ‘No one’s talking about rejecting it,’ he said. ‘Why won’t you just listen to other people’s points of view? Why are you suddenly obsessed with this need to take the Santyth so literally? You know as well as I do that it’s not without obscurity in places, even downright contradictions.’

Cassraw stiffened and his hand came up again, this time to point an accusing finger. ‘That’s blasphemy,’ he said, his voice soft and hoarse. ‘Take care that…’

‘That what?’ Vredech interrupted, lifting his arms and then dropping them violently. ‘I’m not the one who’s in trouble. I’m not the one who called the head of the church a heretic. I’m not the one who’s being complained about incessantly by his flock. I’m not…’ he spluttered to a stop for a moment, then seemed to gather new strength. ‘And don’t you call me a blasphemer,’ he said, indignantly. ‘Since when is it blasphemy to speak the truth? Where there’s doubt, there’s doubt, and the blasphemy lies in not facing it, you know that well enough.’ He laid his hand on the book that Cassraw was holding. ‘These are the reports of men, Cassraw,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘Wise and revered men, but like all of us, flawed. Subject to…’

He faltered as he sensed Cassraw retreating into the grim silence that was becoming increasingly his answer to reasoned debate – when he was not actually shouting it down. ‘All right, all right,’ he said quickly. ‘Let’s not travel over that ground again. But do let’s be practical. You’ll be lucky if Mueran doesn’t have you dismissed from your post if you carry on like this.’

‘There are others who agree with me,’ Cassraw interjected.

Vredech looked at him, worldly-wise. ‘Maybe, but they’ll disagree fast enough if their posts are threatened. For pity’s sake, put a curb on your tongue. The Church is tolerant enough to accommodate a wide range of different ideas on theological matters. Why risk everything you’ve got with this nonsense?’

He clapped a hand to his head as if that might draw back the ill-considered word, but before he could speak, Cassraw was already heading towards the main door.

‘I’m sorry,’ Vredech called out, moving after him. ‘I didn’t mean to say that. It…’

Cassraw had hold of the iron ring that secured the door. ‘This church is corrupted with compromise,’ he said, his head bowed and his eyes fixed on the ring. ‘It must reform. Return to the truth of the Word or we’ll all be doomed. It must be made whole again.’ He tightened his grip about the ring. ‘Like this – unbroken – self-contained.’ He turned towards Vredech, his black eyes gazing piercingly. ‘Follow me or leave me, Vredech,’ he said, his voice deep and resonant. ‘Follow me, or leave me.’

Vredech was suddenly alarmed. He felt events slipping away from him. Cassraw’s outburst in the Debating Hall had been a serious matter, but it was repairable, with care: an apology, a little penitence would right it. But he saw now that something strange was happening to Cassraw. He felt a touch of the quality he had sensed in him at times when they were growing up together. A quality that he had thought as long passed as their youth itself. An obsessive, almost fanatical quality that in someone else he might have called evil, though the word did not come to him now.

He hesitated, part of him saying, ‘Leave him alone, you’re only making him worse.’ But the greater part of him forbade inaction where there was pain. He had to reach out – do something.

He laid his hand on the door to prevent Cassraw from opening it, and, with an effort, met the unnerving gaze. ‘What are you going to do?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve a wife to think of, an important position to maintain – one you strove for and won deservedly. I know you’ve got problems with some of your flock, but that happens to everyone at some time or another. You can’t jeopardize everything like this. Come back with me now. We can smooth everything over with a little care.’