Seeker (22 page)

"So let's go."

"And what do we do when we get to Radiance?" said Morning Star.

"We look for the weapon," said Seeker.

"And then? You said you had an idea, for when we get to Radiance."

"It's just an idea. It may not work."

"You can still tell us."

Seeker hesitated.

"We're doing this thing together, aren't we?" she said.

"Maybe not this part."

"You're saying you don't need us?"

"No, but..."

Morning Star could tell from his colors that Seeker was both excited and afraid.

"You're going to do something dangerous."

"How do you know that?" said Seeker, surprised.

"I just do. So you might as well tell us."

Seeker sighed, and told.

"Suppose," he said, "you'd built a weapon that could destroy the Nom. Your problem would be getting it close enough. Everyone knows the Nomana keep watch, day and night. So really what you'd need is someone who could come and go to the island, someone who lives there, to take the weapon for you. And so that's when I thought"—he gave an apologetic smile, as if he knew he was saying something foolish—"that it might as well be me."

Morning Star stared at him, shocked into silence.

The Wildman had failed to follow the plan altogether.

"Why?" he said. "You don't want to destroy the Nom."

"No, I don't," said Seeker. "But I could make them think I do. I could go about the city of Radiance saying I hate the Nomana, and want to destroy all Anacrea."

"Why would they believe you want to destroy your own home?"

"Because of what they did to my brother."

"Whoa!" The Wildman saw it now. He was impressed. "Heya, Seeker!"

"It's true, too, isn't it?" said Morning Star. "You are angry about your brother being cast out." She could see it even now in his colors.

"There's been a mistake," said Seeker. "Blaze would never do anything so terrible that he deserved casting out."

"So why didn't he speak up at the Congregation?"

"Because he's been cleansed. He remembers nothing. He doesn't even know who he is any more."

Morning Star saw it all now: the simplicity of the plan, and the courage.

"It's a good plan."

"Thank you."

"It's a great plan!" exclaimed the Wildman, understanding it more the more he thought about it. "You go round saying you hate the Nomana. They find you. They take you to the weapon. You destroy it. It's brilliant!"

"And very dangerous," said Morning Star. "You do realize what Seeker's doing?"

"What's he doing?" The Wildman stared back suspiciously.

"He's risking his life."

"Risking his life? Heya! That's nothing! I've risked my life for a crust of bread. I've risked my life for no reason at all, except to tell the story later and laugh."

"He's not like you."

The Wildman put his arm round Seeker, like a taller, stronger older brother. Like the brother Seeker had once had.

"You afraid, brava?"

"Yes."

"Don't be afraid. Anyone gives you trouble has to deal with me. I stand with you."

"To the end of the world."

"What about me?" said Morning Star.

"You, too," said Seeker. "Right, Wildman? We stand together, all three."

"If that's how it's got to be," said the Wildman gracelessly. "She's the one who smacked my face and called me a dumb animal. I don't see what she wants with me."

"You add color," said Morning Star.

B
LAZE AND HIS NEW TRAVELLING COMPANION, SOREN
Similin, reached the crossroads in the late afternoon and spent the night in one of the roadside shacks that served as inns. Here a bunk and a bowl of stew were to be had for three pence each; and with it, the rank smell of many more hungry and unwashed travellers, all come in search of work. The gangmaster, it appeared, took on new labor each morning.

Soren Similin slept badly on the hard planks, and woke long before dawn. There was nowhere to wash and no breakfast, and all his bones ached; but for all that, he felt a sense of satisfaction. By suffering discomfort alongside Blaze, he was strengthening the bond between them. At the same time he was earning the reward that was to come. In his mind, as he lay in the stinking darkness, he heard himself tell the story of these days with a kind of pride. "I too have slept in my clothes," he murmured to himself. "I too have gone hungry and known what it is to be the lowest of the low."

When the others began to rise, pulling on their boots and banging doors, he woke Blaze.

"Time to get up. The gangmaster will be here soon."

Blaze woke in confusion, not knowing where he was.

"Who are you?"

"I'm your friend. We're going to find work together."

The gangmaster's bullock cart rolled up at last, and out jumped three men with short knotted ropes in their hands. They wore tight sleeveless vests, which showed the contours of their powerful chests. They set up a trestle table in front of the inn, and out from the best of the rooms came a stocky man with short-cropped hair and little squinting eyes. He had an account book in his hands, which he laid open on the table in the flickering light of a lamp. Similin guided Blaze into the line of men who formed up before him, and one by one the gangmaster signed them in. As he did so, never troubling to look up, he spoke aloud in a low droning voice, in a manner that seemed to indicate he was speaking to himself.

"Daylight hours, lunch provided at agreed cost, company terms apply. Put your name there, payment at the end of the week, two shillings per man per week less agreed costs. Breach of company terms results in dismissal, those dismissed forfeit one week's pay. Work is daylight hours, lunch provided at agreed cost, company terms apply..."

And so it went round again. Similin and Blaze signed the book in their turn and were directed to the bullock wagon. Within a surprisingly short space of time, the wagon was full. The three muscular men then climbed on board, still yawning. Finally the gangmaster himself took his place, on the only seat, at the front of the wagon.

"Men!" he said, loud and clear. "Be thankful! You now have work."

The men stood, pressed shoulder to shoulder, and said nothing. He had not asked a question. No reply seemed called for.

"I said, Be thankful! Associates! Show them!"

This was addressed to the three muscular men. Without a flicker of a smile, they replied in unison.

"Thank you, Pelican!"

"That's my name. Pelican! So what do you say?"

The men looked back uncertainly. Some murmured faintly, "Thank you."

"Associates!"

The muscular men cracked their knotted ropes against, the wagon's side, making the men jump.

"Thank you, Pelican!" they chorused.

The wagon set off at a steady jolting pace down the road.

"You're all very lucky men!" shouted Pelican. "Work means pay! Be happy about that! The owner of the plantation likes to have happy workers. So you will be happy workers! Is that understood?"

"Yes, Pelican," they replied.

"How do they know you're happy workers? They hear you singing in the fields. Happy workers sing. My associates here will now sing you the Happy Workers song. Listen and learn."

The three associates then raised their heads, and as before, without a hint of a smile, they bellowed out the song.

"
O-ho! O-ho! A-harvesting we go!
The sky is blue and the com is high
The sun shines down and the hours fly by
Who can be as happy as I?
A-harvesting we go!
"

As the bullocks hauled the laden wagon down the long white road, now between tall trees, the dawn began at last to break. Similin and Blaze and the rest of the new recruits sang the song as best they could. The gangmaster was not much impressed.

"Now listen to me! All I'm asking is that you sound happy. You don't have to be happy. I want happy workers singing in happy fields. That way, the owner's happy. If the owner's happy, I'm happy. If I'm happy, you're happy. But if any one of you spoils the party by not sounding happy, you're out. There and then. So let's hear the song again."

They sang again. He was still not satisfied.

"What's the matter with you? That's not the sound of happy workers. That's the sound of a bunch of miserable bastards who wish they'd never been born. If that's how you feel, go back home. I don't want you."

"Please, sir. We've had no breakfast."

"Happy workers don't need breakfast. You'll be fed at noon."

The track now approached a pair of handsome stone gateposts, on the top of each of which stood the figure of a crouching bear, carved in stone. The wagon rumbled through, and onto a long winding drive. On either side, the fields were full of ripe corn, the dusty gray leaves clicking in the early morning breeze.

"Welcome to the Mother Bear plantation," said the gangmaster.

The bullock wagon came to a stop at last by the side of a long store barn, which was already part full of corn. A line of two-wheeled handcarts stood against the barn wall. The sun now rose above the mountains, and shot bright streams of light over the standing corn.

"Everybody out."

Similin and Blaze lined up with the rest. The gangmaster stalked up and down before them, booming out instructions.

"Four simple rules. Pick ripe cobs only. Don't stop. Don't talk. Be happy."

Soren Similin realized that he must now endure the rigors of a long day of hard work. He consoled himself with the thought that the shared labor would bond him closer to the cast-out Noma. And in the hours of rest, he would have time to work on Blaze and transform him into the perfect instrument for his plan.

To start with, the day was pleasantly cool, and the physical labor not beyond his strength. But quite quickly he felt his arms begin to ache and his hands to sting. The work fell into a rhythmic pattern. Move to the next plant, reach up, clasp a coarse-leaved cob, snap it off with a downward twist, toss it into the cart, reach up again. A simple sequence of motions, but by the end of the first hour, he was sweating and had blood on his hands. Who would have thought corncobs could be so hard on the skin? He looked around him. Blaze seemed untroubled, working steadily down his row. The other men were sweating but not bleeding. Similin knew it was because his hands were softer than theirs, because he was not a laborer like them. This made him superior to them. But for now it meant he was suffering more.

He glanced up at the rising sun and wondered if he would be able to last the day. The only respite his weary hands got was when his handcart was full, and he was able to wheel it over to the barn. Trundling the empty cart back was blissfully free from effort. But then the picking must begin again. By the time a second hour had passed, he began to be afraid he would not make it to lunch. Already the heat was unbearable.

Three rows away a worker stumbled and fell, made faint by the heat and lack of food. The associates were on him in seconds, hauling him out. He recovered and insisted that he was able to resume work, but the gangmaster wouldn't listen.

"Break the rules, you're out. No exceptions."

"What about the work I've done?"

"Payment at the end of the week."

"But I won't be here at the end of the week."

"Company terms apply."

The man had no choice but to set off on the long walk back to the high road, with nothing for his pains. Soren Similin looked round and saw that Blaze was watching the sad departing figure. But like all the rest of them, he went on picking corn as he watched.

A third hour passed. Similin began to be afraid that he too would faint in the field. He hurt all over, his arm shook as he reached it up, his mouth was dry, the skin on his scalp prickled in the heat, and the blood from his hands was crusted all down his arms. Then he heard the associates call out, "Sing!" Slowly, from one end of the rows to the other, the workers began to sing. The associates stepped into the rows to lead them in the song, calling out the words for those who had forgotten.

"
O-ho! O-ho! A-harvesting we go!
The sky is blue and the corn is high
The sun shines down and the hours fly by—
"

There came the clop-clop-clop of bullocks, and into view rolled a high-sprung wagonette with a sun canopy over the top. In the wagonette sat a lady dressed in white, wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat, with two children by her side, also dressed in white. In the jump seat behind, not protected from the sun, sat a governess dressed in gray. As the wagonette passed by, the lady and the children waved to the singing workers in the field, and the workers waved back without stopping either singing or picking.

"
Who can be as happy as I?
A-harvesting we go!
"

The lady had very pale skin and was very beautiful. The children caught the song and stood up in the wagonette and swung their arms about, pretending to pick corn, and sang, too. The governess reached out her arms to catch them, fearing they would fall off.

"
O-ho! O-ho! A-harvesting we go!
"

So the wagonette rolled on, out of sight. As soon as it was also out of hearing, the associates strode down the rows and seized one of the workers and dragged him out by the arms.

"I sang!" he screamed. "I sang!"

"You didn't wave," said the gangmaster.

"You never said to wave!"

"I said, Be happy. When the owner's children wave, the happy workers wave back."

"You never said!"

"You're out."

"It's not fair!"

The gangmaster had already turned away. Now he swung back, a look of fury on his face.

"Not fair? Did you say,
Not fair?
"

"I just meant—"

"I give you work. I tell you the rules. At the end of the week, I pay you. That's fair. If you want
Not fair
I can show you that, too."

He signed to his associates. One of them held the unfortunate worker from behind while the other struck him hard in the belly, and then again in the face. The worker fell groaning to the ground. The associates then took turns kicking him, vicious swinging kicks that made him scream. The other workers watched, but they kept on working. In a little while the kicking stopped, and the man lay curled up on the ground, weeping and dribbling blood.