Roger Taylor - Whistler_玖贝云文库

Roger Taylor has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified

as the Author of this work.

First published by Headline Book Publishing in 1994.

This Edition published in 2003 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1

4EB, United Kingdom

www.mushroom-ebooks.com

the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 1843191962

Whistler

A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan

Roger Taylor

Mushroom eBooks

Chapter 1

Clouds, dark and ominous, bloomed menacingly out of the north. Slowly, throughout the day, mass piled

upon mass, higher and higher, as if those leading the vanguard were being overrun by panicking hordes

behind.

Eyes that had been lifted casually towards them in the morning became narrowed and concerned as the

day progressed, for the clouds were grimly unseasonable. Sour-natured weather was to be expected as

winter fought to hold its ground against the coming spring: dark skies and blustering, buffeting winds

bearing cold rains, and perhaps even yet a little snow would offer no great surprises. But this . . .?

This was surely a monstrous blizzard pending, the kind that was rare even at the heart of winter.

‘It’ll only be a thunderstorm,’ some declared, knowingly, though more to hear the reassurance in the

words than from any true knowledge.

For there was no tension in the air, no tingling precursor of the tumult to come, raising the hackles of men

and beasts alike.

Yet there was something hovering before this dark and massive tide, something that flickered elusively

into the senses like an image caught in the corner of the eye that disappears when looked at directly.

Something that was unpleasant – menacing even.

Something primitive. And awful.

None spoke of it.

* * * *

The land that lay in the advancing shade of this strange tide was a great spur that protruded south from a

vast continent. It bore the name it had always borne – Gyronlandt. Once, according to legend, it had

been a single mighty state glorying in its strength and prosperity, and the name still resonated with that

past. Through the ages, however, that same legend declared, Gyronlandt had been riven by terrible civil

strife and then by invasions of desperate peoples from across the seas, fleeing terrors and wars of their

own. And despite many attempts to hold to this ancient unity – some wise, some foolish – Gyronlandt

had drifted relentlessly towards what it was today, a land of a score or so different states living more or

less peacefully together. A land that had been thus ever since ringing legend had dwindled into mere

history and the thundering rhetoric of mythical heroes had become the ranting and mewling of an

interminable list of political leaders in whose wake lay, inevitably, a long tangled skein of unfulfilled

promises and broken pacts and treaties.

Nevertheless, the notion that ‘one day’ Gyronlandt would be united again still held some charm for

almost all the peoples of the land, and often formed a rosy backdrop to any revels of a remotely patriotic

nature. That the several states were ruled (and misruled) by as many different institutions of government,

and that these institutions were frequently changed – sometimes peacefully, sometimes not – did nothing

to further any cause towards such unity. Nor did the equally persistent idea that the present disunity was

‘of course’ due to ‘them’. The identity of ‘them’ varied from time to time, depending on which

neighbouring state was in or out of favour, but certainly it was never ‘us’.

Gyronlandt was separated from the lands of the northern continent by an intimidating mountain range,

across which only occasional traders and other desperate men would venture. The forces that had

formed these mountains had also thrown up a craggy rib down the middle of Gyronlandt which

culminated at its most southerly point in a region jagged with a jumble of lesser mountains. This was

Canol Madreth, the smallest and most central of Gyronlandt’s states. It was also the only one whose

boundaries had remained unchanged, though this was due mainly to the fact that no one saw any benefit

in fighting to annex a land that consisted mainly of mountains and steep-sided valleys of uncertain fertility.

Still less could anyone see any benefit in holding sway over the inhabitants of Canol Madreth – the

Madren.

To the more kindly disposed of the other peoples of Gyronlandt, the Madren were said to be reserved.

Others, less charitably, referred to them as rude and churlish, and frequently linked these attributes with

stupidity as well. It could not be denied that the Madren’s attitude to outsiders was often an unnerving

mixture of chilling politeness and open mistrust, and it did little to endear them to anyone. Not that this

seemed to concern them. They considered themselves to be markedly superior to all their neighbours.

And, almost unique amongst the peoples of Gyronlandt, the Madren were religious. Indeed, they had a

state religion – Ishrythan. It was a sombre-faced creed involving a stern deity, Ishryth, who together with

a triumvirate of Watchers, was responsible for the creation and continuation of all things. Ishryth was

forever battling against the depredations of his brother, Ahmral, who, with a trio of his own, the Uleryn,

sought constantly to lead mankind astray so that in the ensuing chaos he might remake Ishryth’s creation

in his own image. Ishrythan was a religion of duty and dedication, not joy or pleasure, promising bliss in

the future only for appropriate behaviour now, and heavily larded with threats of eternal damnation for

back-sliders. Of the other religions that existed throughout Gyronlandt, almost all derived from the same

holy book as the Madren’s Ishrythan, the Santyth, though most of them held celebration at their hearts,

and in so far as they considered it at all, their followers tended to look upon Ishrythan as at best a

misinterpretation of the Santyth and at worst, a wilful distortion; a heresy.

Not that such thoughts were of any great significance for, even among the Madren, few in Gyronlandt

held to their religion with any great proselytizing zeal. Such quarrels as existed between the various states

were mercifully free from such fervour and were usually associated with trade and commerce, although

occasionally tempers would flare over some long-disputed border lands. Whatever the ostensible cause

of many of these disputes, there was not infrequently a large element of sheer habit in them.

At the centre of Canol Madreth stood the Ervrin Mallos, Gyronlandt’s highest peak. It rose high above

its neighbours and dominated much of Canol Madreth. Indeed, its jagged broken summit could be seen

from many of the surrounding states.

The Ervrin Mallos had a curiously isolated appearance, as if it did not truly belong there but had been

mysteriously transported from its true home in the great northern range. The Santyth told a tale of a

fearsome lord of the earth, then in human form, who had sought to destroy a great army of Ishryth’s

followers who were preparing to invade the island of Gyronlandt, then an evil place.

‘. . . and, turning from this, Ishryth saw that Ahmral had given great power unto the chosen of his

Uleryn who by his will now moved the isle through the waters of the ocean as though it were the

merest coracle. And as the isle was driven upon the shores of the land, so the gathering army of

the righteous was destroyed and buried beneath a mighty mountain range. And, so great was his

pain, Ishryth cried out, his voice rending the very heavens. “As ye have given so shall ye receive,”

and, reaching forth, he tore from the still trembling mountains a great peak and hurled it down

upon the Uleryn, destroying his earthly form forever.’

Children’s tales, grimmer by far, told a darker, more claustrophobic story of a terrible king who was

entombed for his cruelty and foul magics, and whose last cry of terror at this fate was so awful that the

land above could not withstand it and rose up into a great mountain until the sound could be heard no

more.

It was also said that the Ervrin Mallos was the resting place of a great prince who, at Ishryth’s will – or

was it Ahmral’s? – lay sleeping until a dark, winged messenger should bring him forth at some time of

need. This however, had neither the credence offered by the Santyth, nor the dark certainty of truth that

lies in children’s whispered secrets, and was generally deemed to be a mere fabrication, although some

said that it was in fact a true tale, but one brought by some ancient traveller from another place.

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.’

But even as he spoke he knew that his words were not reaching his friend. ‘Corrupt with compromise,

Vredech,’ Cassraw repeated. ‘Follow me or leave me.’ Then he pulled open the door and stepped

outside.

Vredech did not resist. It would be hopeless, he knew. Cassraw had always tended to act more at the

behest of his passions than his mind, and only when they were spent would his reason return to him. He’d

probably calm down in an hour or so and see the sense of making his peace with Mueran and the others.

Surely he wouldn’t seriously risk his post with the church? He had no trade to turn to, nor land to live off.

Vredech picked up the ring and let it fall. It made a dull thud as it dropped into a well-worn groove in the

door. The sound set Vredech’s thoughts cascading; they carried him back to the Debating Hall and the

excuses he might use to save his friend from the punishment that was surely inevitable.

He had barely taken a step away from the door when a sharp, anguished cry came from outside and

tore through his inner discourse. He yanked the door open. Cassraw was standing at the foot of the

broad and well-worn stone steps that led down from the door. He was gazing back at the Witness

House or, more correctly, he was staring over it, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and . . . ecstasy?

Vredech ran down the steps two at a time, his concern for his friend returning in full and mounting with

each stride. Reaching him, he turned to see what he was staring at.

Stretching to the farthest horizons both east and west, the sky was filled with the clouds that been

accumulating through that day. But where they had been dark they were now almost black, and what had

been a threat of unseasonable ill weather had become a sight of terrible menace. The clouds were piled

so high upon one another that they rendered insignificant the Ervrin Mallos and all the lesser peaks about

it. Vredech felt himself swaying as his eye was carried irresistibly towards their summit.

‘Ye gods,’ he whispered, taking Cassraw’s arm to steady himself, and forgetting momentarily both his

cloth and the place where he was standing.

‘No,’ he heard Cassraw whispering. ‘Not gods. But God. He is here. He is come. For me.’

And he was running towards the gate that led out of the grounds of the Witness House. By the time

Vredech registered what Cassraw had said, he had disappeared from view. Vredech hurried to the gate

after him. Two novice Brothers were returning from the Witness House’s garden. They were looking up

at the clouds nervously.

‘Did you see Brother Cassraw?’ Vredech asked, trying not to seem too concerned.

‘See him? He nearly sent me sprawling,’ one of them replied with some indignation.

Vredech ignored the injured tone. ‘Which way did he go?’ he demanded.

The second novice pointed. Not along the winding road that led to the town below, but towards the far

corner of the high wall that surrounded the Witness House. Vredech grunted an acknowledgement and

set off in pursuit.

This isn’t happening, he thought, as he half-walked, half-ran, keeping close to the wall, instinctively

placing it between himself and the forbidding clouds. This was supposed to be a routine Chapter meeting

to discuss routine administrative matters, but somehow Cassraw had succeeded in turning it into a major

theological debate. No, debate was not the word – it had been a diatribe. He had latched on to some

trivial point that Mueran had made and managed to build a spiralling, self-sustaining harangue out of it.

Vredech had been slightly amused at first, as this seemingly coherent string of arguments blossomed out

of nothingness. It had been like a metaphor for the Creation itself; out of the emptiness came the Great

Heat, and from that, all things. Nearing the end of the wall, he could not help smiling. It was still such, he

reflected, for that too had gone sour.

Then he was at the corner of the wall. Puffing slightly, he leaned on it for support as he stepped round.

Judgement Day . ..

The words formed in his mind as he found himself standing alone and totally exposed before the black,

billowing masses that filled the sky.

He was not aware how long he stood there and it was only with a considerable effort that he managed to

drag his mind back to his friend. From here, Cassraw could have moved on down towards the valley or

up towards the mountain’s shattered summit. There was a small, isolated chapel a little way down the

mountainside that the Brothers sometimes used when they felt the need for quiet contemplation. But

Cassraw had not run out of the Witness House grounds like a man seeking silence. Vredech scoured the

ground rising steeply ahead of him, its dun colours strangely heightened by the oppressive darkness

above.

‘He is coming. For me.’ Cassraw’s dreadful words returned to him. Vredech clenched his fists tightly as

if the pressure could squeeze the implications of Cassraw’s utterance out of existence. The man was

going insane.

A movement caught his eye. Vredech gasped; it was Cassraw. But he was so far ahead. And he was

almost running up a steep grassy slope.

Vredech shook his head. He would do many things for his old friend, but charge up that mountainside

after him was not one of them. It must be fifteen years or more since he had run in a mountain race, and

he had done little violent exercise since, being quite content to move at a pace compatible with the dignity

of his calling. He was still a little breathless simply after running from the gate.

With a sigh he turned round and headed back.

* * * *

High above the retreating Vredech, eyes wide and fixed on the boiling darkness overhead, Cassraw

staggered relentlessly forward, his shoes muddied and scuffed, his cassock torn. In between rasping

breaths he implored, ‘I am coming, Lord. I am coming. Have mercy on the weakness of Your faithful

servant. Do not desert me.’

The darkness seemed to be reaching down towards him, listening.

A silence enfolded him.

Then a voice answered his prayer.

Chapter 2

Dowinne was pacing fretfully from room to room. An unease had been growing on her all day. It was

probably the weather, she tried to convince herself, taking her cue from the grim clouds that were steadily

building up over the town. But even as this thought came to her, she dismissed it. Whatever was troubling

her was deeper by far than any pending storm.

It was not in Dowinne’s nature to tolerate difficulties with equanimity and, from time to time, she gritted

her teeth and bared them in anger and frustration as she strode about the house. Until she caught sight of

her image grimacing out at her from a mirror: it seemed to be snarling at her for this exposure of her inner

feelings and she straightened up hastily and forced her face into a bewitching smile.

Something behind the image seemed to be mocking her. She moved again to the window. The Haven

Parish Meeting House at Troidmallos was a well-appointed one, and the living quarters were excellent.

As they should be, Dowinne thought. This was far from the poky, down-at-heel Meeting House they had

begun with, way out in the wilds, ten years ago, and Cassraw’s appointment to it so young was no small

achievement. Yet . . .

Yet it wasn’t enough.

She folded her arms and squeezed them hard into her body as if to contain the ambitions that for some

reason were clamouring to be heard today. Then, secure in the silent stillness of her home, she gave her

old desires their head. They excited her. It did not matter what she had now – she would have more. She

would be important – powerful. Not just in Troidmallos, but in the whole of Canol Madreth. People

would defer to her – would watch their words, their very gestures, in her presence, just as she did with

others now. And they would seek her patronage. Dowinne could scarcely contain herself at the prospect

of what would eventually be hers, if she managed the affairs of her husband correctly.

With remarkable perceptiveness she had seen, even in her youth, that the church in Canol Madreth

wielded almost as much authority as its secular counterpart, the Heindral, and that her best hope for

future wealth and security lay that way. For despite its austere protestations, the church was rich, and its

senior figures, though for the most part not ostentatious in their lifestyles, were most agreeably

comfortable. More significantly, in political matters the church’s opinions and discreet support were

always carefully sought because of the influence it exerted over the people. Dowinne particularly

appreciated the fact that the church’s utterances were substantially unburdened by popular debate and

that, above all else, it did not need the affirmation of the people every four years for its continued reign.

Of course, she could not enter the church herself – that was a privilege confined exclusively to men – but

she could perhaps do even better than that. By marrying and mastering the right man she could master in

turn those whom he commanded. And Cassraw was the right man beyond a doubt. She had judged him

to be her own restless ambition given form, and he had confirmed her judgement time after time.

True, his fierce passion had been an unexpected burden to her at first, but she had gradually redirected it

into proclivities that she found more tolerable and which had subsequently proved to be useful both as

goad and lure. She smiled secretively, instinctively bringing her hand to her face to hide the response even

though she was alone.

She must always be careful. She must never fall into the trap of imagining that Cassraw was an ordinary

man like any other; that much she had learned through the years. For all his intellect and reason, he

resembled a wild animal, and as such he could perhaps be trained, but he could never be tamed.

Her unease returned as she gazed up at the Ervrin Mallos. Within the building clouds she sensed a

power which seemed to echo the power she felt within her husband. Unexpectedly, a flicker of

self-doubt passed through her. How could she hope to manipulate such a thing? How could she have the

temerity?

She crushed the doubt ruthlessly. All storms could be weathered by those with the will.

Yet Cassraw had been behaving in an increasingly peculiar manner of late. His sharp intellect seemed to

be feeding upon itself, shying away from the shrewd and subtle conspiring at which he was so adept. It

was almost as though he was searching for ever more simple solutions. His preaching had become more

impassioned, but more primitive, and it was not fully to the liking of all his flock, although, she mused,

some of them seemed to be responding to it. Dowinne frowned. They were not the kind of people she

wanted following her husband. Not only would they be of little value in furthering his progress through the

church, they would probably be an outright hindrance. Still, support was support, even from malcontents

and incompetents, and it must surely be usable one way or another. She made a note to turn her mind to

this problem in the near future. It was always worthwhile having alternatives available. You never knew.

Her thoughts returned to Cassraw. Life would be easier if she could keep him safely in the mainstream of

affairs. Perhaps she had been holding the reins a little too tightly of late. Perhaps she should help him to

. . . expend . . . some of his burning energy. She tapped her hand lightly on her chest. After all, it wasn’t

too unpleasant a prospect these days.

But, even after this resolution, her unease lingered. She would not be able to settle until he returned from

the Witness House. Cassraw had never been desperately enthusiastic about Chapter meetings and,

thanks to the bleating of some of his offended flock, he had been on the receiving end of one of Mueran’s

soft-spoken rebukes only a few days ago. He had laughed it off on his return, mimicking the pompous

old hypocrite, but she had felt the rage beneath the mockery and, on the whole, would have preferred

that he did not meet Mueran so soon afterwards.

Then, from deep inside her, came an awful intuition that something was terribly amiss. She began to

shake and, for an unbelievable and giddying moment, she felt the long-built edifice of her ambitions begin

to totter. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror again, posture wilting, eyes haunted.

‘No!’ she cried out and, swinging round, she brought her hands down violently on the windowsill. Her

right hand caught the base of a heavy metal dish and sent it clattering to the floor, but she made no

outward response to the pain, letting it pass through her unhindered, to burn away this unexpected and

fearful spasm of weakness.

The effort left her breathless, however. It was the storm coming, she decided. That was all – just the

storm. But this explanation held no more comfort than it had earlier.

She looked out again at the mountain. She could just make out the grey stone Witness House halfway

up. It had always seemed pathetically small against the rugged might of the Ervrin Mallos, but now even

the mountain looked small against the ominous banks of clouds.

‘Come down, Cassraw,’ she whispered. ‘Come down. Get off the hill before the storm comes.’

* * * *

‘Come, My servant. Come closer.’

Cassraw did not so much hear the voice as feel it suffuse through him. His body began to tremble, and

his mind to whirl with a maelstrom of incoherent thoughts. It was as though all that he was, all that he had

ever known, was struggling frantically to escape lest it be scattered and destroyed by the power that had

just touched him. A preacher both by profession and inclination, however, he instinctively reached out

and found his voice. It was hoarse, broken and shaking, but it served as an anchor to which he could

cling, if only for the briefest of moments.

‘Lord, I see the dust of Your mighty chariot and I am less than nothing even before that. Guide me,

Lord. Guide me.’ The words seemed pathetically inadequate.

Despite the screaming demands of his body following his precipitate charge up the mountain, Cassraw

held his breath through the long silence that followed. Then the voice came again.

‘Come closer.’

Cassraw’s tumbling thoughts stopped short. He gazed around desperately, not knowing what to do and

fearing to repeat his plea. The clouds were above him now, but from the south some residual daylight still

lit the mountain, throwing long shadows like an unnatural, pallid sunset. It made all about him unreal,

ill-focused and dreamlike; a strange image seeping through to him from some other place – a place in

which he did not belong. Only the darkness overhead and his own awareness were real now – the one

opaque, oppressive, unbearably solid, the other guttering and feeble. He felt as though he were not

standing high up on a mountainside, but cowering in some dark cavern far below, in the very roots of the

mountains, with their crushing weight towering above him.

Yet he must go upwards. There the Lord waited. Waited forhim .

He set off again, clambering recklessly over the rocks, heedless of the damage to his shoes and his

cassock, heedless of the cuts and bruises he was gathering as he stumbled and fell repeatedly in the failing

light.

Questions tormented him. What was happening? What madness was driving him? Bringing him into

confrontation with the leaders of his church, jeopardizing his position both in the church and the

community – jeopardizing old friendships, perhaps even his marriage? But these thoughts held no sway.

All were carried along by the stark certainty of what he had felt as he had dashed out of the Witness

House and turned to see the sky beyond it turned black and forbidding, like the anger of a beloved

parent writ large.

And he had been right. With each step he had felt that confirmation. He was right. He was right.

And now the Lord had spoken to him; touched him. Him! Summoned him to his presence on this ancient

and most mysterious of hills.

Cassraw cursed his legs for their heavy reluctance as he struggled on.

The chain of seemingly trivial events that had eventually brought him raging out of the Debating Hall

flickered briefly before him, taking on the appearance now of a mighty golden pathway along which he

had been propelled. ‘Your way is beyond our understanding, Lord,’ he gasped. ‘In the fall of the least

mote is Your design.’

‘I have little time, servant.’

The voice raked chillingly through Cassraw, reproaching him for this momentary diversion from the call.

‘Forgive me, Lord,’ he repeated over and over in a frantic litany, as he scrambled up the piles of broken

rocks that would lead him to the summit.

Then the strange daylight was gone. He was vaguely aware of a faint haziness from the south, but did not

look at it for fear of losing so much as an eye-blink of time on this desperate journey.

Roger Taylor - Whistler

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