Seeker Page 13

  The Novice Master gazed quietly back at him and said nothing. Seeker looked into those big blank eyes and saw there that the decision had indeed been made. He was not accepted. There was no need to ask a question. He had been given his answer.

  "It's not fair," he said. He knew it was the wrong thing to say, but he couldn't help himself. And anyway, they knew what he was feeling. He could see it in their eyes. So why pretend?

  "Just like you weren't fair to Blaze."

  The Novice Master gave a slight bow of his head, which might have been an admission of unfairness, and then he raised his right hand and turned it the smallest distance, towards the door. Seeker knew he was on the point of tears. He argued no more. All he had left was his pride. Keeping his head high, he crossed the floor, and the meek opened the door for him to pass through, and closed it after him.

  As soon as he was outside, the hot tears came. They were tears of shame, tears of bitterness. He felt as truly cast out as Blaze had been. They had rejected him without a word! It had been enough to look at him to know he was not fit to join the Nomana.

  But I am fit! I heard the voice! Why can't they at least give me a chance? It's not fair!

  This was the worst of it. He burned with injustice. His father would say, "I told you so. Do you believe me now?" But Seeker did not believe him, or the Novice Master. He believed the spirit in himself, and the voice that had spoken to him. He knew he was born to be a Noma. How could they not see it? He would prove them wrong. He would—

  What could he do? Where could he go? Not home. Not to the schoolroom tomorrow. Not back to his father's plan for his life.

  Then it came to him: the simple, the obvious, the impossible, the only way to go. It was madness, but at least it offered hope.

  Unaware that the tears were streaming down his cheeks, oblivious to the curious or sympathetic looks he received from departing pilgrims, he made his way down the steps, his new goal glimmering before him like a distant guiding light.

  ***

  "My name is Morning Star."

  The two selectors looked up at her in silence. She felt her cheeks burning. Was this the time to ask her question? Should she wait for them to speak first?

  Then the Novice Master was looking down. She saw his hand begin to move. Was it over? Was it decided? Surely that hand could not be beginning a move to the right?

  "Please," she said. "I have a question."

  The Novice Master's hand became still. He looked up again. Morning Star had prepared several questions. What she actually said was not one of them.

  "Where's my mother?"

  She caught a flicker of surprise in the Novice Master's bulbous eyes. Of course: her question on its own would make no sense. Somehow she had assumed they would know.

  "My mother joined the Nomana thirteen years ago."

  "Your mother is a member of the Community?"

  "Yes."

  "What is her name?"

  "Mercy."

  The Novice Master reached for a book in front of him. He spoke to his colleague.

  "Do you know the name?"

  The second selector shook her head.

  "We have no one in the Community of that name."

  The Novice Master ran his eyes down a list in the book.

  "No," he said. "Your mother is not a member of the Community."

  Morning Star, already made intensely nervous by the process of selection, found herself unable to understand what they were saying.

  "But she is! That's why she left us! To serve the All and Only."

  "It may be what she intended to do," said the Novice Master. "But it seems she was not accepted."

  Morning Star could see from their colors that they were telling the truth. But how?

  "That's impossible! She must be here! If she's not here, where is she?"

  "I'm sorry. I don't know."

  He lifted his hand and turned it to the right. In a daze, Morning Star went to the outer door, and into the Shadow Court.

  The shock of learning her mother was not a Noma was for the moment greater than the shock of her own rejection. She stood motionless in the dark and echoing court. Through the open doors of the high arch, she could see the last pilgrims leaving the stands and making their way home. The Congregation was over. She too must leave.

  All these years she had believed her mother was one of the superior beings called the Nomana. That was why her mother had left her husband and child. That was the only reason that made sense. They had been proud of her for it. Morning Star had grown up wanting to follow in her path. And now—she wasn't here. What path had she taken? Where had she gone? Why hadn't she come home?

  As this thought took hold of her, the full horror came rushing in, to fill up her heart and mind, making her feel sick and weak. It was just as Filka had said. Her mother had not come home to her because she didn't love her. What else could she believe? That she was dead?

  Yes! Let her be dead! Then she could still believe in her love! Better dead than alive and not caring enough to seek out her child again!

  One of the meeks coughed softly behind her and indicated that she should move on down the steps, along with the last of the pilgrims. Morning Star had no resistance left in her. She obeyed, no longer caring where she went.

  I'm a wicked girl, she thought. I want my own mother to be dead. No wonder the Nomana rejected me. Why did I ever think I was worthy of so high an honor? I'm ugly and dull and bad, and even my own mother didn't want to come back to me.

  Misery swept over her in a wave that was too strong to be contained. As the great sobs came rolling out of her, ashamed of her grief, she stumbled off the steps and along one of the island's terraced streets and found a dark corner by a wall where she would not be seen. Here she crouched down and clasped her arms round her knees and cried and cried until she could cry no more. She fumbled in her bag and took out the plait of wool her father had given her, and pressed it to one damp cheek.

  "Oh, Papa," she whispered. "How can I ever tell you?"

  She spoke softly but aloud. Her words were heard.

  "Who's there?" said a voice.

  There was someone on the other side of the wall. It wasn't a high wall, just a marker at the end of one property and the start of another. She uncurled herself and turned to look. There, rising up from a huddled crouch much like her own, was the boy who had run into her. His colors had turned to blue and violet, though here too there was the faint sparkle of gold she had caught before. A distant streetlamp sent a glimmer of common light by which she could see that his face was stained with tears. She remembered now: he too had been rejected.

  He was looking at her with exactly the same expression of loss that she felt in herself. It was like looking in a mirror. Instinctively, as if to touch her own reflection, she put up one hand. He did the same. Their hands met, palm to palm. The flicker of gold light coming from him grew stronger. It fascinated her, this sparkle. It was like—what was it like? There was no name for it. It was like sun dust. She moved her hand to feel the air close to his cheek, not touching his skin, reaching for the colors. He jerked back, as if fearful she would hurt him.

  There came a long mournful hoot from the quay. The last boat was about to depart.

  "You're crying," he said.

  "I thought my mother was here. But they sent her away."

  "Like my brother."

  "Your brother?"

  "He was the one who was cast out."

  "He was your brother?"

  "Yes."

  "Why didn't you go to him? You didn't even say good-bye."

  "No."

  "What has he done that's so unforgivable?"

  "I don't know."

  She could see from his colors that he was ashamed, but she couldn't stop herself saying what she thought.

  "If I'd been here when my mother was sent away, I'd have gone after her."

  "I wish I had." The boy had fresh tears in his eyes. "I wish I'd told him I don't believe it. I wish I'd s
aid good-bye."

  "You still can. He can't have gone far."

  "There's something else I have to do. Something more important."

  "Doesn't look much like you're doing it."

  He stared at her and said nothing, but she could see the colors round him changing, as clearly as if he were speaking aloud. The blue was turning to purple, and then to red. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a pencil and paper. He wrote down some words.

  "Wait here," he said.

  He ran off down the street. She saw him push the note under a house's closed door. Then he was back.

  Lets go.

  Together they ran down the steps. They went as fast as they could, but long before they reached the bottom, they could see the last barge moving away up the river. They kept on descending, but they didn't hurry any more. A night wind had risen, bringing with it the first patter of fat drops of rain.

  The note Seeker had left for his parents to read the next morning was lying on the mat just inside the door. It read:

  Gone to find Blaze. Don't worry about me. Seeker.

  He said nothing about the other part of his plan. He knew they would never have understood.

  17. The Compact

  THE LAST FERRY HAD GONE, AND ALL THE OTHER BOATS in the little port were tight-moored for the night; all but one. As Seeker and Morning Star reached the bottom of the steps, they saw one slender sailing boat on the point of departure. The crew had just cast off, and the bow was beginning its swing out into deep water. Here was a chance, the only chance, to leave the island that night. The rain was falling harder with every passing minute. Neither of them wanted to remain in the place of their humiliation. So without a word to each other, they both set off at a run across the flags of the quay and jumped over the widening gap, onto the boat's aft deck.

  The crew were all gathered in a noisy cluster on the foredeck, on the far side of the raised cabin housing, so the arrival of the two extra passengers went unnoticed. Voices were raised in anger, and the boat was being left to drift where it willed. Some great commotion was taking place. Seeker and Morning Star huddled in the lee of the cabin, which gave some shelter from the rain, and through the slats of the cabin windows, they witnessed what seemed to be a mutiny.

  "Look!" said Morning Star. "It's him!"

  At the center of the shouting crowd was the beautiful youth who had burst in on the selectors and who had been dismissed, as they had been dismissed. Here, on the deck of his own boat, knife in one hand and spike in the other, careless of the falling rain, he was back fighting the kind of battle he knew how to fight.

  "You don't love me no more?" he was shouting, slicing the air before his crew in an ecstasy of rage, forcing them away from him, back to the very rails. "You don't love me no more?"

  "Boss! Listen to me!"

  "I've done listening! I've done too much listening! Now I'm gonna slit your chicken necks!"

  "All we said was don't mess with hoodies—"

  "Don't mess with me, chickens! You want to see the mess I can make?"

  His sweeping blade stabbed and sliced, drawing a shriek of pain.

  "You don't love me! Get off my boat! Jump!"

  He swung again.

  "And you jump! And you! I don't want any of you!"

  He was crazier than they had ever seen him, yelling like a drunk, but he wasn't drunk, his eyes were as sharp as his spike, and he wanted blood.

  "I said jump!"

  The one he had slashed was the first to jump, eyes wide with terror, blood and rain soaking his left arm. After that, they all jumped, fleeing the swinging blade and the stabbing spike. One after another they crashed into the dark, hissing water and struggled their way to the far bank.

  There was no one at the tiller, and the Wildman didn't care. Let the currents take him where they wanted. His crew, now hauling themselves out onto the riverbank, expected him to turn and pick them up again, but the Lazy Lady scudded on, heading for the open sea.

  "I don't need any of you!" yelled the Wildman, alone on the foredeck, gleaming in the rain. He felt strong again. He had renewed himself. He was rid of the men who had witnessed his humiliation.

  Then with a punch like a fist, the storm wind swept out of the east, hurling the rain before it, and the boat bucked and began to speed over the water.

  Seeker stood up, holding hard to the cabin roof.

  "We'll be swept out to sea!"

  The Wildman turned and stared.

  "You get off my boat!"

  "You need help to sail her," shouted Seeker, "or you'll be swept out to sea."

  The gusting wind smacked the mainsail and threw the Lazy Lady onto her beam, whipping her out into the bay. The boy was right. The wind was driving hard, and it was coming off the land.

  "You reef a sail?"

  "No."

  "Take the tiller!"

  The Wildman reached for the halyards and began to reef the mainsail. The Lazy Lady was now running fast before the wind, through streaming rain. The jib sail must be tightened. Then suddenly there was a girl before him he had never seen in his life. No time for questions.

  "Take that!" he shouted, throwing her a rope. "Pull!"

  Seeker had hold of the tiller.

  "Take her round!" shouted the Wildman. "Slow and strong!"

  Seeker put his weight on the tiller and pushed, not knowing which way to go. The mainsail was dropping, and with it, the boat's speed. The Wildman saw the jib slacken, and he yelled to Morning Star.

  "Pull! Harder!"

  They needed the last of their speed to make the jibe. Now that he had the mainsail stowed, he ran back to take the tiller himself.

  "Help the girl with the jib!"

  Seeker and Morning Star between them kept the jib sail tight, and the Wildman worked the tiller, steering them in wide tacks against wind and rain, back towards the coast. Slowly, skillfully, he brought the Lazy Lady into a small tree-lined inlet, where, in the lee of the land, the pounding ceased at last, and the boat righted itself, and they slipped quietly into shallow water.

  The rain was still hammering down, the heavy drenching rain of summer storms. The Wildman let the boat's bottom grind into the sand of the riverbed. They would be safe here till morning. Then he turned on the two strangers.

  "You can go now."

  "Go where?" said Seeker.

  "I don't care."

  "Thank you," said Morning Star. "We'll gladly take shelter in your cabin."

  "I never said—"

  "You're very kind. You must have a wide circle of friends."

  The Wildman stared at her through the rain. Morning Star was already on her way down the ladder to the cabin. Seeker followed her.

  "Fool girly!" exclaimed the Wildman, slashing angrily at nothing with his spike.

  In the cabin, Morning Star squeezed the rainwater from her soaked clothing and set about looking for something to eat.

  "I don't know about you," she said, "but I'm hungry."

  "I'm starving," said Seeker.

  The Wildman came stamping down the steps into the cabin.

  "You get off my boat!" he said.

  Morning Star had found the provisions store.

  "Cheese," she said, putting it on the table. "Shortbread."

  "You leaving?" said the Wildman. "Or do you want your necks slit?"

  "I'm not leaving," said Morning Star. "So if you really must cut my throat, you'd better get on with it."

  The Wildman stared at her, baffled. Both Morning Star and Seeker had started to eat and were paying him no attention. This gave the Wildman a problem. He was quite capable of killing them both if sufficiently enraged, but he was not sufficiently enraged. They were disobeying him, but they weren't taunting or provoking him. Somehow it was not possible to lean across the table and cut their throats as they sat there eating his shortbread.

  "That's my shortbread!"

  "I bet you stole it off someone else," said Morning Star.

  "So I did! That's why it's mine n
ow."

  "Have some. It's good."

  It was good shortbread. The Wildman realized he too was hungry.

  "I'm not saying I won't slit your necks later," he said.

  "That's quite understood."

  So he too sat down at the table with them and ate. Everyone knows how hunger makes for bad temper, and how satisfying that hunger brings about, surprisingly quickly, a change of mood. So it was with the three who had fled from the holy island in the storm. They ate all the shortbread and all the cheese, and then felt inclined to be friendly.

  The rain was still hammering down on the cabin roof.

  "You might as well stay till the storm passes," said the Wildman. "Help me pull her off the riverbed."

  "Can you sail her by yourself?" said Seeker, knowing he couldn't.

  "Don't much matter." The Wildman gave a shrug. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

  "You wanted to join the Nomana, didn't you?"

  The Wildman blushed a deep red. Morning Star didn't need to read his colors to know that this was the anger of humiliation.

  "Who says so?"

  "We saw you. We both tried to join, too. We were both rejected, too."

  "Rejected?"

  "So you see," said Morning Star, "we're all the same, really, and you don't need to slit our throats."

  "Rejected!" said the Wildman again, with mounting bitterness. "What's wrong with me? Why don't they want me?

  "Everything's wrong with you," said Morning Star. "You're violent and cruel and selfish and ignorant."

  "I'm not ignorant!"

  "Yes, you are. What do you know about the Nomana?"

  "I know they got power! And I know what they've got in their garden."

  "What have they got in their garden?"

  "Peace."

  "What sort of peace?"

  "How would I know?"

  "You don't know much, then."

  "We can't talk," said Seeker. "They rejected us, too."

  "That's right!" The Wildman glared at Morning Star. "Fool girly!"

  "I expect I am a fool," said Morning Star, feeling the sadness return. "I wanted so much to join the Community."

  "Me, too," said Seeker. "It's all I've ever wanted."

  "They don't want me, just like they didn't want my mother."