Authors: William Nicholson
"You ever met any hoodies, General?"
"I should say I have! The only thing that keeps this wicked world from sinking back into the slime it crawled out of is the hoodies!"
"So you'll know they've got power. And that's why I want them."
The old man snorted again. That was funny, the Wildman wanting to find the hoodies. So let him: anything to put a stop to shopping trips where nothing was paid for. Anything to leave the General free to visit the little house by the riverbank.
Out on the river a barge was gliding by, laden with pilgrims. The spiker had chosen the right day to go looking for hoodies. General Store saluted, out of habit, and the passing boatman saluted back.
"Pilgrims," he said. "They're going to see the hoodies, too."
The Wildman's keen eyes followed the pilgrim barge out of sight.
"I hear they've got their own god on their island."
"That's what they say."
"What kind of god would that be, General?"
"There's gods all over. But there's those that say he's the only god. The one that made the world and rules over all men, including no-good cutthroat spikers."
"Seems like it's only fitting that I should pay him a call, then," said the Wildman softly.
He stood up and shouted to his men to get back on board ship.
"One more question, General. Everybody wants something. These hoodies—what is it they want?"
"Ask them."
"I'm asking you."
"Asking don't mean getting."
The Wildman's dark eyes flashed with anger. He drew his spike and touched its needle-sharp point to the folds of skin beneath the General's chin.
"For me it do," he said. "What I want, I get. Or necks get slit."
The old man sighed. He had once spoken with a hoodie, who had told him something of his hopes and dreams, in words that made little sense. If the crazy spiker wanted to know, let him know, and much good may it do him.
"They want to live in the garden," he said. He liked the sound of it, so he said it again. "They want to live in the garden."
The Wildman withdrew his spike. Softly he repeated the words of the white-haired stranger he had encountered in the riverside village. The sound of that quiet voice had never left him, from that moment to this.
"You will find peace," he said, "when you live in the garden."
"Peace?" growled the old man. "What do you want with peace?"
"How would I know?" said the Wildman. "But don't it just sound sweet?"
Then he swung round and saluted the old man, grinning all over his beautiful face, and sprang up onto the porch railing to call to his men.
"Heya, bravas! One last dance with the Wildman! Downriver it is!"
General Store watched the
Lazy Lady
safely out of sight. His stomach heaved and groaned. He held out one hand.
"Take me to the po, boy."
By the time Morning Star reached the top of the steps and had passed between the ancient pines to the wide square before the walls of the Nom, the many pilgrims who had arrived earlier were already taking their places. Tiered benches had been erected round three sides of the square, under the shade of faded green canopies, facing the Pilgrim Gate on the fourth side. Morning Star continued to the entrance to the Nom itself, meeting other pilgrims on their way out. The sun was descending in the sky, but there was still an hour or more before sunset and the start of the Congregation. She was in no hurry She wanted to take in every detail.
She stood before the Pilgrim Gate, looking up at the high stone walls of the Nom. Now that she was close, she could see what an enormous building it was. No one knew how many Nomana there were in the Community, but it was said there were over a thousand. This great monastery, their entire world during their training years in the novitiate, was a small town in its own right. But unlike every other town in the world, at the very center there was—her heart was beating fast; she could hardly frame the words for the wonder of it—this gate. This gate before which she stood led to the actual physical spot where—
All she could do was pray. Her lips moved as she spoke her prayer aloud, but very softly.
"Loving Mother, make me worthy of your love. Wise Father, teach me to know you. My All and Only, let me lose myself in you."
The Pilgrim Gate was a high, undecorated arch. Everything on Anacrea seemed to her to be simple and beautiful, as if to show that all that was needed for beauty was to do the thing right. This arch rose up in a gentle curve that perfectly supported the immense weight above, and gave the impression of being no larger and no smaller than it needed to be. It was however very large.
There were watchful stewards everywhere; and many Nomana. The Nomana stood quietly, their badans over their heads, ready to be called on if needed.
Morning Star followed the stream of pilgrims through the gate and into the Shadow Court. She understood at once the function of this big dark space. Light entered only from the archway, throwing her shadow far before her, but once well inside, all was twilight. Her beating heart slowed, as did her breathing. She passed slowly over the granite floor, beneath the plain stone vaulted ceiling, and did her best to empty herself of the clutter of the day. She meant to do as she had been told and come into the presence of the one who had created all things with a light and loving heart.
She moved on through the open doors into the Night Court. Here she stood still for a while in the darkness, seeing how the speckles of light from the pierced dome fell on the watchful stewards and on the pilgrims, and on the walls and floor alike, causing the people to disappear. She held out her hand before her, and the pinpricks of light on her hand joined the pinpricks of light on either side, and the shape of her hand was no longer apparent. She knew this was how it was meant to be. No one had told her, but she knew it even so. Those who came into the presence of the All and Only were to come stripped and empty and with no expectations. It was impossible, of course. But as much as possible was to be left behind, here in the stippled darkness.
On through further doors, into whiteness: the forest of glowing columns that was the Cloister Court. She did not enter alone, and others were here before her, a great mass of pilgrims, but they moved slowly, and they passed in and out of sight among the pillars, and so for all it was as if each and every one were alone. The shining air was full of soft murmuring sounds as the pilgrims approached the bright presence on a wave of prayer.
So beautiful, thought Morning Star. So simple and so beautiful. The ranks of columns were themselves arrayed like pilgrims, advancing towards the light. She looked up and saw the soft glow of the pearlstone ceiling, the creamy veins and fissures of the translucent stone. Then she looked ahead, through the guardian pillars, and saw the coming brightness and felt weak with the wonder of it.
"Loving Mother, take me in your arms. Loving Mother, rock me in your arms. Loving Mother, grant me peace."
She prayed as she went forward, sliding her bare feet over the smooth white marble, not wanting to intrude on the soft sigh of sound that was the pilgrims' prayer. She could feel her breathing growing calmer as a new tranquil strength began to flow into her. Ahead, she caught a dazzle, a flash of silver. She was getting closer.
Now on either side she found herself passing other pilgrims lying prostrated on the floor. Overwhelmed by the nearness of the All and Only, they had come to a stop among the white columns, to abase themselves and call for mercy, to weep and to pray. They gave off a pale blue shimmer, which was the color of devotion and prayer. Morning Star was as awed as they were, but she felt no fear. Had not her mother come here before her? Was she not coming home at last?
Now, not so far ahead, she could make out the dark and light of the pierced silver screen. She was not yet close enough to see through the rings of star-shaped holes into the sacred space beyond, but she knew that there, bathed in the last rays of the setting sun, lay the Garden.
All at once her heart began to beat painfully fast. She stopped and leaned against one of the pillars and closed her eyes. She felt weak, so weak she could no longer stand. She slipped to her knees. There, in a kneeling position, she opened her eyes and gazed on the soft dazzle of the silver screen, and once more she prayed.
"Loving Mother, I have nothing special to give you. I'm not beautiful and I'm not clever. But I'm hardworking and I'm willing, and all that I have is yours."
Then, as she gazed, the forms and the colors before her began to sway and dance. The bright pricks of silver light expanded, and round them rippled fringes of violet, and out from the violet burst strands of brilliant crimson, and from each crimson strand bloomed petals of gold. The colors flowed out from the Garden and clamored round her, entirely beyond her control, splashing like spilled paint, one over the next, endlessly renewing themselves. Afraid, overwhelmed, she reached up her hands as if to push the colors away, but at once she lost all sense of where she was and found herself swimming, or falling, through starbursts of crimson and gold. For the first time in her life, her colors had escaped their bounds, and all creation was a sea of color, and every wave was sorrow and loss and longing and joy, crashing over her head until she knew she must surely drown.
She closed her eyes and bowed her head, and little by little the giddying flood receded. She did not dare after that to go any closer to the silver screen. She rose and went stumbling out into the cool dark of the Night Court and, there, drew long calming breaths.
She was shocked by her own loss of control.
Am I really so weak? Am I so helpless?
For all the brilliance of the colors that had overwhelmed her, it had not been a vision of glory. She had tumbled into chaos, into formlessness, into a world where nothing had sense or meaning any more. No good, no bad, no up, no down: all cracked, all shattered, all spinning, all falling. A descent into madness.
But is the madness in me, or outside me?
Slowly the pounding eased in her chest, and the sweat dried on her brow. She felt strong enough now to move back out into the Shadow Court. There, through the high, arched frame of the Pilgrim Gate, she saw the canopied benches filling up with pilgrims, as the time of the Congregation drew near. She saw the silent Nomana on guard, and was reminded that her mother was close now, and perhaps was even looking out for her. Her mother would surely guess that she would offer herself to the Nomana today, now that she was sixteen years old.
Strengthened by this thought, Morning Star went out into the square and took her place among the pilgrims.
F
OR
S
EEKER THE DAYS PRECEDING THE
C
ONGREGATION
were unbearable: both tense with anxiety and achingly empty at the same time. Nothing more was said at home about the impending disgrace. Nothing much was said at all. Meals passed in silence. His father retreated into school business; his mother into her books. They were all waiting for the blow to fall, braced to endure the stares and whispers of the neighbors. They were also preparing themselves for the heartbreak of seeing Blaze one last time, before he left their lives forever. A casting out was very rare, and when it took place it was before the assembled Congregation, as a warning to all.
Seeker kept to himself as much as possible. He was struggling with a confusion of feelings. He tried to recall the voice that had spoken to him in the Nom, but with every hour that had passed since, the doubts had grown. Where had the voice come from? Surely not from the god who made all things. Was it not much more likely that he had imagined it? And as for his certainty that Blaze could not have broken his vows—what did he know of what the last three years had done to him? What did he really know about his brother at all? He had loved him and he had admired him, but they had both been three years younger then. Perhaps he had changed. After all, why would the Nom tell a deliberate lie?
None of it made any sense. The more he turned it over in his mind, the less certain he became about anything. So in the end he too, like his father and mother, bowed his head and waited in silence for the nightmare to end.
The fast boat carrying Soren Similin moored at the island's dock just half an hour before sunset. Similin dismissed the boatman and joined the last of the pilgrims in time to hear the weary steward run through his speech of welcome for the last time. As the steward spoke the words, "Empty your hearts of all bitterness and anger and greed and fear," the secretary made his ungainly features suitably smooth, as if he too wanted nothing more than to surrender to this overweening god. As he climbed the four hundred and twelve steps to the Nom, he kept a reverent silence like the others. And when his turn came to shuffle through the marble pillars to the silver screen, he too prostrated himself as if in awed prayer. But he was not praying. He was thinking how easy it would be to obliterate the entire edifice of superstition in which he lay, once the right carrier had been found.
By the time the setting sun was touching the long ocean horizon and the great bell of the Nom had begun to toll, Soren Similin had taken his place among the mass of other pilgrims on the canopied ground that faced the Pilgrim Gate. The pilgrims and the islanders and the meeks who served the Nom were all in their respective sectors, their watching faces illuminated by lines of flaming torches. There were five thousand and more, all told, crowded onto the banked benches. The Congregation was about to begin.
Now the sonorous boom of the bell fell silent, and the waiting people heard a new sound: a soft chant, floating out from within the building. The members of the Community were coming. AH rose to their feet. Seeker, standing between his parents, felt for his mother's hand, and held it tight. Morning Star, lower down among the pilgrims, fixed her eyes on the high, arched gate, and her mouth went dry with nervous anticipation. The chant came louder now: a song without words, made of deep harmonies, the song that was always sung at the start of the annual Congregation, the one called the Chant of the Nomana.