Roger Taylor - Whistler

A figure came running toward them. It was another Keeper. He acknowledged Vredech with a brief but respectful nod then spoke to Skynner. ‘He’s off again. It looks as if he’s heading for Mirrylan Square.’ He looked anxious. ‘He keeps pestering people – shouting at them.’

Skynner frowned. ‘What have you done?’ he asked.

‘Just kept an eye on him, like you said,’ came the reply. ‘I know well enough how he responds to our uniforms when he’s like this.’

Skynner made no comment but turned sharply into a narrow alleyway. Vredech and the Keeper swung in behind him and the trio moved in single uneven file, stepping around and over the debris and litter that cluttered the alley floor. Every now and then, Skynner’s long stride would give way to a trot as his anxiety drew him on. Thus, when they emerged from the alley, Vredech was slightly breathless and quite flushed. He put his hand on Skynner’s arm to slow him down. The big man did so, albeit reluctantly.

A noise reached them. It was someone shouting.

‘He’s in the Square,’ the Keeper said, pointing. Vredech saw a small group of Keepers gathered at the far end of the street. It was apparent from their movement that they were endeavouring to watch what was happening around the corner without being seen. Some of them were swinging their batons.

‘Put those away right now,’ Vredech said grimly as he reached the group. One or two looked at Skynner who merely furrowed his brow angrily at them for their hesitancy in doing as the Preacher bade them.

Vredech looked round the corner into Mirrylan Square. It was one of Troidmallos’s older squares and, though its age showed in the buildings around it and the well-worn and rutted cobbles, it always had an open, airy feel to it which made it more popular than many of the town’s newer squares with their carefully maintained lawns and trees.

Now, however, the people standing around the edges of the square were not interested in the subtle mysteries of its charm. Their attention was on the centre of the Square, where stood a small stone tower which marked the site of a long-sealed well, and their mood was one of uncertain excitement, plus no small amount of expectation. Motioning Skynner and the others to stay where they were, Vredech stepped forward and began walking towards the tower. Donning his Preacher’s manner he looked round at the watchers sternly as he passed. Most of them shifted a little uncomfortably under his gaze, but he did not pause to give them any further reproach. Instead, he concentrated on the hulking figure of Jarry pacing to and fro at the foot of the broad steps which served as a dais for the tower. He had a half-empty bottle in one hand and was gesticulating violently with the other, at the same time shouting something that Vredech could not make out.

Aware that all eyes would now be on him, Vredech straightened up and tried to keep his anxiety from his face. It was no easy task as a large part of his mind was occupied with asking, ‘What am I doing here?’ Jarry was larger even than Skynner and fully as strong as his powerful muscular frame indicated. And, right now, there was a frightening momentum in the long strides he was taking. Vredech took in the old tower with its stained and spalling rendering and its steeply pitched slate roof, dotted with spheres of moss. It was scarcely the height of two men to its eaves, but Jarry’s size so distorted its perspective that Vredech had the impression he was looking at a picture taken from some child’s book showing a great giant guarding a mighty tower fortress.

Oddly, the impression did not fade immediately, and for a terrifying moment he felt as though he were shrinking as he neared the formidable figure. He stopped and deliberately composed himself. His father’s words came to him. ‘See things as they are.’ Simple but profound advice which, though far from easy to follow, had more than once been of great value to him. Then the scene in front of him was Jarry and the old Well Tower. And Jarry was Jarry, for all practical purposes a child trapped in a man’s body. Vredech began advancing again, this time at an easy pace and in a direction that would ensure that Jarry would see him before he was too close. He smiled.

‘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.’