Dennis Schmidt - Wayfarer 2 - Kensho

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KENSHO
Dennis A. Schmidt
v2.5 – fixed broken paragraphs, garbled text, formatting; by peragwinn 2004-09-19
This book is dedicated to:
Niels Bohr, Albert Einstein, Werner Heisen-berg, Geoffrey Chew, and all the other shapers of
modern physics
Martin Heidegger, F.S.C. Northrup, Steven Toumlin, Hans Reichenbach, Fritjof Capra, and
numerous contemporary thinkers, philosophers, and epistemologists
D.T. Suzuki, Katsuki Sekida, Dogen, Nan-sen, Eno, and generations of Zen scholars, monks, and
masters
but most of all to my wife.
PROLOGUE
The thief crouched silently in the deepest shadows at the base of the wall.
Patiently he watched, as across a few yards of moons-lit courtyard the Brother who guarded the
door of the shrine yawned and stretched. It was late and the lad was tired, bored by an eventless night
and a duty that was purely ceremonial. For who would ever want to steal what lay within the shrine?
Eventually the young man braced himself against the wall next to the doorway and dozed off. As the
guard's chin touched his chest, the thief flowed across the yard and through the door, moving so softly
and quietly that he seemed but one more shadow among the rest.
Gently placing one foot in front of the other to avoid even the slightest creak of floorboards, the thief
approached the chest that stood against the back wall of the shrine's single room. By sheer chance a tiny
window set high into the wall to the right let in a mingled beam of light from the three moons that hung in
the sky outside. The glow struck the left end of the trunk lid, casting fuzzy, triple shadows on the floor.
The thief reached the chest and knelt in front of it. With both hands, he slowly, slowly raised the
unlocked lid so that soundlessly it revealed what lay within. Ever so gently, he lifted the long,
cloth-wrapped object that was the sole occupant of the chest. Cautiously unwinding the covering, he
bared the narrow, slightly curved shape of a sword in its scabbard. Placing the sword on the floor next to
his knees, he replaced the cloth and slowly, slowly closed the lid again.
As softly as before he rose, then thrust the sword through his waist-band, securing the cords attached
to the scabbard to hold it firmly in place. Then he turned once more and, as quietly as the moons-light
itself, re-crossed the shrine.
As he passed the lightly snoring sentry at the entrance, he paused for a moment, a mischievious smile
lighting his hooded features. Looking about, he spied a Ko blossom lying on the ground nearby. Two
steps brought him to it and two more returned him to the peacefully sleeping lad. With the lightest touch
imaginable, he drew the guard's sword from its scabbard and put the blossom in its place. Then he stuck
the sword in the ground at the place where he had discovered the flower.
With a last dark grin, he disappeared into the night.
BOOK I
FATHER ANDRETTI
I
It was one of those rare, wonderful nights when all four moons rode together across a cloudless sky.
Subtleties of shape and shade invisible beneath the blue-tinged glare of the daytime sun crept cautiously
out to transform the world with delicate beauty, finely edged with a fairy lace of quadruple shadow.
The central courtyard of the Brotherhood on the Mountain was filled with the soft moons-light and
the hushed murmur of voices. The intricate tracings cast by the great Ko tree that dominated the middle
of the yard nearly reached to the open-air meditation hall that lay at its southern edge. To the north
squatted the low, wood-and-adobe buildings that housed the senior Fathers, their rough textures and
harsh angles smoothed and mellowed by the gentle glow. East and west were buildings dedicated to
instruction and administration, quiet and empty now, their silence adding to the stillness of the night.
Beyond, in all directions, other shapes were barely visible, and at the very edge of perception, more
suggestion than reality, loomed the wall that completely surrounded the Brotherhood.
In the courtyard itself, on either side of the Ko tree, one could make out two amorphous but discrete
groups of robed figures. The first seemed ordinary enough for a Brotherhood: the usual assortment of
Fathers and Brothers, young men and old, tall and short, thin and fat, spanning the range from Tenth
Frame Novices to Masters. There were at least fifty of them all told, gathered in little clumps of
murmured conversation.
Standing at the edge of the first group, Burke glared with ill-concealed hostility at the twenty or so
members of the second, arranged in a loose cluster, separated from everyone else by six or seven yards
of empty ground. No one made any attempt to approach them and they seemed quietly content to remain
by themselves. Talk between them was sparse, each individual seeming to be taken up with his own
private reverie, yet there was a sense of closeness and belonging about them that made their mutual
silence companionable and binding rather than isolating and divisive.
Burke glanced at them again and shook his head. Different, that's what they are, he thought. All
pretty much the same age, same height, same build. Look at 'em quickly and they might seem normal. But
look and you discover how strange they are.
Their faces, for example. Calm. Too calm. Always that slight half-smile on their lips. Nothing ever
startles them. It's like they already know what's coming.
Or watch the way they sit or stand or move. Slow, deliberate, controlled, smooth. So damn smooth.
Never a wasted motion. And always ready to lash out with lightning swiftness. Always, always ready.
Maybe some people can't tell what they are, Burke thought. But I can. I can pick 'em out of a crowd
of 'steaders, settlers, Brothers, whatever. Even without their swords, I can smell 'em.
Deadly. Unpredictable. Different.
Burke twitched his head in their direction and muttered to the gray-haired man who stood next to
him: "They always stay apart from the rest of us. Aren't we good enough for 'em?"
The tense line of Father Andretti's mouth was the only thing that betrayed his annoyance. Otherwise,
his manner was relaxed and mild as he replied. "They mean no harm, Burke. True, they stick together,
but I imagine the real reason isn't so much pride as simply the fact that they haven't much to say. After all,
their lives are rather circumscribed. They're totally dedicated to two things: the Way of the Sword and
the Way-Farer. That doesn't leave much to talk about with ordinary people. But if you'd ever take the
trouble to strike up a conversation with one of them, I think you'd find they're really quite affable. Gentle,
in fact. Yes, and almost child-like."
"Talk to one of 'em?" Burke snorted. "Who can talk to 'em? The only answer you ever get is a grunt
or a nod! Why, damn it, Father, even when they talk with each other they hardly say a word. They're the
quietest bunch I've ever seen. I swear to the Gods, they must have their own sign language or something!
Unnatural, that's what I call the lot of 'em!" He shuddered slightly with aversion, casting a black look in
their direction.
Andretti's reply crackled with barely suppressed anger. "That's enough, Burke! You're overstepping
yourself when you criticize the Seekers of the Way of the Sword! They serve the Great Way and all of
Mankind here on Kensho, just as Jerome intended. Remember that and keep your prejudice to yourself!"
The harshness in the older man's voice caused Burke to recoil, his face momentarily blank with
surprise. He had never seen Andretti angry before. Then Burke's answering anger came, creeping into his
face and eyes along with an expression of cunning. "Aye, Father," he grated, "to be sure they serve. I'll
not forget. And you'd be wise not to forget that we also serve, and serve right well, in a far more ticklish
area! It's The Faithful who are your strength out on the Plain, not the Seekers! We're the muscle of the
Free Council and the Great Way and the Way-Farer outside this Home Valley!"
Surprised by the sudden strength of his anger and his loss of control, Andretti clamped down on
himself, using the mind-calming techniques every child on Kensho learned almost before he could walk.
What's wrong with me tonight? he wondered. To lose control, and in front of Burke? I must be more
worried about the situation than I've admitted to myself.
Forcing a cool smoothness into his words, he answered. "I know it well, Burke. The Faithful have
been honored by everyone ever since Jerome founded them. They helped clear the Ronin out of the
passes. And they still protect the settlers from those Ronin bands that survived the Great Killing.
"As for yourself," he continued soothingly, "have no fear. We value your loyalty and services for all
they're worth. The information you gather for the. Free Council is properly appreciated, believe me."
"Hmmmm, hmmmmm," Burke nodded, mollified by the praise and the change in Andretti's attitude.
Teach him to get tough with me, the little man thought smugly. For a few moments he savored the older
man's apology, remaining silent as he looked over the assemblage with his sharp, quick eyes.
"Don't see any of the representatives from the Council of the PlainsLords here," he said finally. He
chuckled dryly, rubbing his long, thin hands together with malicious glee. "I'll bet Dembo's really sweating
this one! Imagine! The Way-Farer calls a special meeting in the middle of the night and doesn't invite the
representatives of the Lords!" He turned again to Andretti, his gaze penetrating. "Any idea what it's all
about, Father?"
Uncomfortable because he had no answer, Father Andretti shrugged. How he disliked this
sneaklizard of a man! Small, dark, stoop-shouldered, with swift little eyes that constantly darted here and
there, spying, snooping, seeking advantage in everything. The kind of creature that steals eggs from nests.
It bothered him that such riff-raff, no matter how useful, found a home among The Faithful.
But what can I do? he asked himself. I need their strength to balance that of the PlainsLords. And I
need Burke's information to keep one step ahead of that devil Mitsuyama.
Father Andretti sighed hugely. A large man, well over six feet, he had a massive head with a strong,
square face, surrounded by short, curly gray hair and an equally grizzled beard. In his youth, he had been
powerful. But as he had risen through the hierarchy of the Brotherhood until he had reached its pinnacle
as President of the Free Council, somehow his muscles had grown soft, and he had acquired a layer of
fat around the middle. Nevertheless, he was still quite impressive and carried an undeniable aura of
determination and authority.
So much to think about, he repeated to himself. What could this middle-of-the-night summons to
Audience mean? Why had the Way-Farer called them all together? And why had he excluded Dembo
and the other representatives of the Plains Lords?
"Couldn't be that you finally got through to him about Mitsuyama, eh?" asked Burke with a calculating
glance. "That'd explain why no Dembo."
Mitsuyama! At the very name, Andretti felt a surge of anger and frustration. Finding ways to
counteract that man and his infinite, intricate scheming consumes my every waking hour, he thought in
silent fury. Mitsuyama and his cursed PlainsLords represent the greatest threat to Mankind since the
Mushin nearly destroyed us at First Touch!
And now this new information that Burke had brought: did it mean that Mitsuyama was moving
toward a final showdown, that the battle of rhetoric he had been waging with the Free Council was about
to turn into a real battle, complete with bloodshed and death?
Andretti looked up momentarily from his internal conversation and noted with pleasure that Burke
had moved away and was now talking to someone else. Spies, he thought. It isn't bad enough that I've
had to turn The Faithful into a para-military reserve to enforce the power of the Free Council against the
threat of Mitsuyama; no, I've actually had to create a spy network with Burke at its head to find out what
that devil's up to. And if this new information is true, it's a damn good thing I did!
For an instant a wayward thought crossed his mind. Was Mitsuyama really a devil or only a
misguided fool? No. The man knew exactly what he was doing, carefully plotting each devious step. It
took all the best minds on the Council to deal with the man's ceaseless machinations.
And even then, Mitsuyama scored victory after victory. His stand against the Council's decision to
disband the Keepers and Artisans had gained him a great deal of support, especially out on the Plain.
And if Burke was to be believed, there were many, even within the ranks of The Faithful, who
half-believed his claim that the Free Council was subverting the purpose of the Great Pilgrimage!
What utter rubbish! he thought indignantly. Why, any fool can see that there are ten times as many
men spread across Kensho now as in the days of Jerome.
And someday the entire planet would be settled. But growth had to be slow and deliberate. In
keeping with the Great Way. There could be no explosive breeding, no overwhelming of the world, no
conquering and subjugation. That was the way of Earth, the way that had led to the very conditions that
had forced men to undertake the Great Pilgrimage in the first place. There would be no repeating the
mistakes of the Home World here on Kensho. The Council was determined.
For Mitsuyama to twist this sensible caution and concern into a subversion of the Pilgrimage was the
height of irresponsible demagoguery. Everything the man said and did was nothing but a ploy to discredit
the Free Council. His real ambition was clearly to replace them and seize power for himself!
And if he ever succeeded? Andretti quailed inwardly at the very thought. Death. Destruction. A
repeat of First Touch and the Madness. He shuddered. The Mushin, the mind leeches that fed on men's
emotions and drove the unprotected mind into screaming Madness, are still with us, he thought grimly.
Still very much with us. Only the Brother and Sisterhoods, following the Great Way laid down by
Jerome, keep the invisible creatures under control. If the Council were to fall, who would maintain the
inviolability of the Great Way? Who would continue the training that keeps the 'hoods fully staffed?
Mitsuyama? He laughed ironically.
No, he told himself, there is no other way. If Mankind is to survive on Kensho, the Great Way must
be maintained in total purity. And that means the Free Council must stay completely in charge of the
situation. If that required turning The Faithful into an army, so be it. If it meant using spies, then they had
to be used. And if it led to a final, bloody confrontation with Mitsuyama and the Plains Lords, then that
too had to be.
From the corner of his eye, Andretti noticed a movement to his right. Someone was approaching. He
looked up and saw Father Olson coming across the yard in his direction. Damn! he thought. All I need is
Olson's ceaseless antagonism to really upset me. Again he realized how agitated he was and firmly
calmed himself as the younger Father, another member of the Free Council, walked up.
"What's it about, Andretti?" Olson asked sharply. Everything about the blond-white man was points
and angles. There was nothing soft about him anywhere. Tough, lean, with a harsh aquiline nose that
jutted across an ascetic-looking face, cold blue eyes that never seemed to blink and cut into one like an
ice dagger, there was no way to like Olson. You could admire the preciseness of his mind, the keen,
cutting edge of his intelligence. But there was no way to like him.
His very presence put Andretti on guard. Any conversation between them took on the character of
combat from the very first words. Attack, parry, counter. "Which it!? Be more specific."
"You know what I mean. Did you tell him about the information your spy brought?"
Andretti nodded curtly.
"And?" pressed Olson.
"And nothing. The Way-Farer responded as he always does to our concerns about Mitsuyama and
the PlainsLords. 'My, that sounds bad, Tomas. Very serious. I'm glad you and the Council are on top of
the matter. But I'm sure you're misinterpreting things. Surely it doesn't matter in any case.' "
"The fact that the PlainsLords are training a secret army didn't make any difference?"
Andretti snorted. "He didn't seem in the least surprised."
Olson eyed Andretti coldly. He had known how the old man would react to the news. They all had.
The Way-Farer wouldn't react at all. He never did. In that Johnston had been consistent ever since he
had taken up the Sword of Nakamura from the great Coran, the third Way-Farer in the line that began
with Jerome.
It's a good thing the old man's utter indecisiveness is balanced by the fact that everyone loves him so
much, he thought. For everyone did love and revere Johnston. Even Mitsuyama and the Plains Lords.
Uncharacteristically, Olson sighed. "So he won't do anything?"
"Has he ever?"
"No," Olson replied, the coldness returning to his voice once more. "He's much more concerned with
meditation and his hand-picked pack of Seekers," he jerked his head in the direction of the group which
stood across the courtyard, "than he is with the Way or the 'hoods or Kensho itself. He never makes any
decisions, not about the Keepers, or the Message, or the PlainsLords. We have to do it all," he finished
bitterly.
"And what should we do about Mitsuyama and his new army?" asked Andretti, his tone heavy with
sarcasm.
"You know my views. You don't respect them, but you know them."
"You've stated them often enough in Council Meetings."
"Yes, and I'll state them again. We could undercut Mitsuyama's position and destroy his credibility if
we'd ..."
"The Council has decided ..." Andretti interrupted firmly.
"The majority of the Council has decided," Olson amended sharply.
"All right, damn it, the majority, the overwhelming majority, of the Council has decided that what
you're asking, even in the limited form you propose, would harm the Way and begin the same vicious
cycle that ruined Earth."
"And an armed confrontation with Mitsuyama won't hurt the Way? Bah! You're a blind fool,
Andretti! You're impervious to reason and opposed to change. And determined to drag the rest of us
down with you!" Olson spun about and stalked away.
For a moment, Andretti felt something akin to despair. Enemies everywhere! How could anyone sort
it all out? There was so much, too much, to think about! So many factors to consider! Mitsuyama, the
PlainsLords, the new army, the Keepers, the Message . . .
Damn! he cursed himself. Control! You can't control the situation until you control yourself. And
you've got to keep control because you're the only one who can. Johnston's a wonderful old man, but
he's useless, he's ...
A sudden stillness settled over the courtyard. Aware of the silence, Andretti turned to see the
Way-Farer enter the yard and walk slowly toward him. It hurt him to see how old and tired the Master
looked. Johnston caught his gaze— and held it. He's coming directly to me, Andretti realized, surprised
but not displeased. What could that mean?
"Ah, Tomas, Tomas," the old man said as he embraced Father Andretti. "We've seen so little of each
other these last few years. I've missed you, my son, missed your inquisitive mind, your constant doubting
and searching. But then, I suppose you've been very busy with being President of our Free Council."
Turning from Andretti, the Way-Farer faced the rest of them. "Thank you all, my friends, for coming.
I assure you that the reason I called is important enough so that none of you will go away feeling you
have been unjustly cheated of a night's rest. Aside from sharing the beauty of the night itself, I have
something very important to relate to all of you."
The old man turned half-way back to Andretti. "Tomas," he began, "one of my first disciples, one of
my oldest friends, and perhaps the staunchest support my term as Way-Farer has had; I have a request
to make of you."
Andretti bowed low. "You have but to ask, Master."
The Way-Farer nodded. "Ummmmmm, yes, yes, I'm sure. Tomas, please go to the shrine and bring
Nakamura's Sword to me." A murmur ran through the crowd.
"Yes, bring me the Sword. It's time it passed from my weakening grasp to that of a stronger man.
"Yes, do it now, Tomas. For tonight I am going to die."
II
Despite his years of training, Father Andretti found it almost impossible to control the surges of
contradictory emotion that swept through him. Deep sadness at the imminent loss of a loved and revered
Master vied with exultant hope that now something might be done to stop the PlainsLords before it was
too late. A new Way-Farer was bound to be more sympathetic to the Free Council's concerns!
But the strongest emotions centered on the Way-Farer's words just preceding his declaration. He
asked me to get the Sword, recalled how long he'd known me, praised my work as President of the Free
Council! Surely I'm to be the next Way-Farer! His mind aflame with speculation, Andretti approached
the door of the shrine.
Bowing to the young honor-guard, he composed himself. Then, at a stately pace, he entered the
shrine. Slowly, ceremoniously, he walked softly across the floor toward the chest, which stood against
the far wall. From the tiny window high on the wall to the right, a splash of moons-light fell on the chest,
casting a quadruple shadow on the rough planks of the floor.
Reaching the chest, he knelt in front of it, touched his forehead to the floor in reverence to the most
valuable thing on Kensho, the treasure, of the race. The Sword of Nakamura, brought by the Admiral
from Earth. Given into the hands of Jerome on board the Flagship. Passed from Way-Farer to
Way-Farer since then as a symbol of the transmission of office and power. The Sword of Nakamura was
the symbol of Mankind on Kensho, the symbol of the Great Way they followed, and the symbol of their
eventual victory over the Mushin.
Father Andretti stretched out his hands and slowly lifted the lid of the trunk. Then, with it resting back
against the wall, he reached inside to take up the cloth-wrapped sword.
As his fingers touched the cloth, a shock ran through his body. Hurriedly, he felt around. The cloth
was there! But there was nothing wrapped in it!
A wave of dismay struck his mind. Jerking the trunk to him, he peered inside. The dim light of the
moons fell on the empty space where the Sword should have been. Nothing! Wildly, he stared about,
then again felt over every inch of the trunk's interior. Gone! Empty! The Sword was not there!
With a cry of anguish, he sprang to his feet, his gaze sweeping the empty room. Making little moans
of fear, he circled about the room, ignoring the Brother at the door who stared in, utterly perplexed by his
actions.
Finally he stopped, standing in despair in the middle of the floor. He stared vacantly at the young man
who still watched wonderingly from the door. Suddenly, "Gone!" he shrieked. "The Sword of Nakamura
is gone!"
Only two moons still clung to the sky. The double shadows in the courtyard had become so deep
that torches had been brought to offer enough light to see by. The scene that appeared in the flickering
brightness was a strange combination of chaos and calm. The outer parts of the yard, especially around
the entrance and exit areas, swirled with nervous activity. People met, exchanged news and views, then
hurried off again to another meeting. The buzz of excited voices permeated every corner. But the closer
one moved to the center of the yard, and the great Ko tree that silently stood there, the quieter things
became. The rushing about ceased, and men stood calmly, almost sorrowfully, looking at a figure that sat
at the base of the tree.
Immediately surrounding the Way-Farer were twenty other seated figures: the young Seekers of the
Way of the Sword. They and the old man were engaged in soft conversation, seemingly unaware of the
confusion that filled the rest of the yard.
Suddenly Father Andretti thrust through the standing throng circling the seated men. In two steps he
stood, towering over the Way-Farer and his companions, obviously bursting with news. Before he could
speak, however, the old man held up his hand in a forestalling gesture. "Calm yourself, Tomas. I can see
you have something to tell me. Sit, compose your thoughts. Then tell me."
With a tremendous act of self-control, Andretti sat. But his face clearly showed both his dismay and
annoyance. Gods! he thought, how can he sit there like that when the whole structure that Jerome, Obie,
and Coran built is about to tumble down around our ears? He shook his head in self-reprimand. He's
dying, he reminded himself. He's dying. And he's deliberately calming his mind and detaching his
awareness from the world.
Quieted by these thoughts, Andretti's face relaxed and the scowl left his eyes. As soon as it vanished,
the Way-Farer turned back to him and smiled. "Better," he said. "That's better. Now, my son, what is it
you want?"
"Master," Father Andretti replied. "We've searched the entire Brotherhood, room by room. Nothing.
The Sword of Nakamura has simply disappeared. "
The old man shook his head. "Hmmmmmm. Yes. Gone, you say? My, that does create a problem.
I'm about to die, and before I do, I'm supposed to pass on the Sword to my successor. But there is no
Sword, so I can't pass it on. Which means I can't name a successor. What a strange world it will be
without a Way-Farer!"
Father Andretti looked at the old man in shocked surprise. "No Way-Farer? But . . . but. . . that
can't happen! It mustn't happen! The Way-Farer is the heart, the soul, the . . . the focus of all Kensho!
Why, having no Way-Farer would be like having no Great Way."
Nodding, the Way-Farer smiled gently. "Yes, yes. Perhaps that will come to pass some day, too. But
Tomas, really, if there is no Sword, how can there be a Way-Farer?"
Andretti's mind raced furiously. What the old man was saying was true! The Sword was the physical
symbol of power. For everyone on Kensho, the man who wore the Sword of Nakamura was the direct
descendent of Jerome, the legitimate leader of the Great Way. Would anyone, especially the PlainsLords,
accept a man as head of humanity if that man did not have the Sword? The shock of that question jarred
his whole system. He knew the answer: No. Mitsuyama, D'Alams, Kondori, all of the PlainsLords would
look on this as a sign from heaven. It would legitimate their refusal to support the Free Council. No
Sword, no Way-Farer. No Way-Farer, no loyalty. This would provide exactly the excuse they needed
to break their allegiance with the Brother and Sisterhoods, to attack the system and set up their own in its
place. Andretti felt a premonition of ultimate disaster shuddering in his mind.
The Way-Farer was smiling at him. Carelessly, the old man picked up a Ko blossom that lay on the
ground next to him. He looked at it, then breathed deeply of its delicate fragrance. "Lovely," he
announced. "Truly delightful." He held the flower out to Father Andretti. "Here, Tomas, take it. Smell it.
Beauty is so ephemeral we should never waste it when we find it. Here. Take it."
Andretti just stared at the proffered blossom. A flower, he thought wildly, a flower. The world is
crashing about us in ruins. Nakamura's dream, j Jerome's labor, Obie's battles, Coran's careful building,
all, all stood in imminent peril of destruction. ? And all the Master of the Great Way can do is offer me a
flower?
Tears welled in his eyes. Even now, as he offered the flower, the old man was dying. And everything
Mankind had fought for ten generations might be dying too. And now it seemed that only I care, Andretti
mourned to himself. And only I can do anything to stop it. The Way-Farer offers nothing but a Ko
blossom!
The tears streamed down his face as he rose. His body was shaken by great wracking sobs of raw
emotion. Pity, fear, love, despair surged through him in towering waves. All he knew was that he had to
leave here, he had to get away to someplace quiet where he could think. It was up to him, completely
and solely, to find a way out of this mess. No Sword, no Way-Farer. No Way-Farer, no loyalty.
His head and chest aching as he fought himself back under control, he croaked out, "I must go now."
He turned on his heel and left.
For long minutes, the Way-Farer stared after him kind sadness shadowed his features. Then the old
man sighed and shrugged. He looked at the Ko blossom he still held extended in offering. One by one,
his fingers began to open, to let it fall to the ground.
Suddenly, he stopped, closed his fingers again and brought the flower close. He turned casually to his
left to a young man who sat there calmly, with alert eyes and an air of barely restrained energy. "Edwyr,"
the Way-Farer spoke quietly, so that even those close had to strain to hear. "Edwyr, is the Ko blossom
not lovely?"
Edwyr fixed his gaze on the blossom in the Way-Farer's grasp. It was lovely. He nodded.
"But that loveliness, is it not mere appearance? Does it not exist only in the mind? What if I tell you,
this is not a Ko blossom, but in truth it is a Death Sting. What do you say to that?"
The young man smiled. He reached out and took the blossom from the old man's fingers. Then he
breathed in the perfume. "Truly," he whispered, "it is lovely."
The Way-Farer smiled back. Slowly, he leaned forward until his mouth was next to the ear of the
young man. Those seated nearby could see his lips move, but were unable to hear a word.
The effect upon Edwyr was remarkable, however. The young man stiffened as if struck a blow. His
eyes went wide with surprise. Then just as suddenly, he burst out weeping, his body tossed by gigantic
sobs, the tears gushing down his face. Yet his features positively glowed with joy at the same time. It was
startling and everyone who saw it never forgot the strange contradiction of a joyous man weeping.
Just as quickly, Edwyr was calm again, smiling quietly at the old Master as the latter leaned back into
his place. Carefully pushing the stem through a hole in his worn robe, Edwyr placed the flower over his
heart.
Looking at those around him, the Way-Farer nodded. He straightened his robe. Then, in a soft voice
that carried even to the farthest corner of the busy courtyard, he said, "I think it is time for me to die
now."
Complete silence was instantaneous. All eyes turned to the old man. Calmly, with a ghost of a smile
lingering on his lips, he folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. Gradually, his breathing became
shallower. Finally, his chest stopped moving at all.
For several moments, everyone just watched the still form with total fascination. From the Ko tree
another flower fell, and in its journey to the earth it lightly struck the old man's shoulder. Slowly, ever so
slowly at first, but gathering momentum, the body keeled over. Edwyr quickly bent to the sprawled form
and lifted an eyelid. He held his cheek against the Way-Farer's mouth. Taking the slender wrist, he felt
for a pulse. Putting the limp hand back on the ground, he looked up at the circle effaces flickering in the
torchlight. Then he spoke.
"The Way-Farer is dead."
III
Father Andretti leaned wearily against the window frame, gazing into the courtyard. The first rays of
dawn were tumbling over the Brotherhood's walls and splashing to the ground where last night everyone
had milled about in confusion. A lone Novice was carefully raking the area to remove all signs of the
disturbance.
The Way-Farer's body had already been bathed and laid out in the shrine. Today people from all
around would pass by the bier and bid a final goodbye to the beloved old man. Tomorrow, Johnston
would be buried.
Exhausted by so much emotional strain and so little sleep, Andretti slumped down onto the window
sill. For several moments, he stared dully at the growing light. Then, gathering energy from somewhere
deep inside his large frame, he spoke without turning to the little man who stood across the room by the
door. "If Mitsuyama did steal the Sword, why haven't you uncovered any information, or even rumors? I
thought you had reliable agents among the Plains Lords."
Burke, looking as tired and worried as Andretti, shook his head, even though the other man wasn't
watching. "I've been trying to tell you for the last half hour," he whined, "I'm as surprised as you are.
Gods! Something this big, you'd think somebody would've let something slip. I just don't understand it.
News of the secret army, that leaked. And stealing the Sword . . . that's bigger. A lot bigger! How the
hell did Mitsuyama keep it quiet? Every stinking tree lizard should be singing about it! I don't know how
..." "You're supposed to know, though," interrupted Andretti flatly, "You're a spy. Spies should know
things like that. Or they aren't worth anything."
The little man winced. Best just shut up, he thought. Best just let him get it out of his system. Let him
beat on poor Burke. But by the Gods, I'm going to do some beating of my own! My people must have
heard something and just didn't pass it on! Damn the fools all to hell!
Abandoning the morning to its own devices, Andretti turned back to the dim room. "The situation's
too touchy to move without evidence. Until we have proof, we can't even voice our suspicions. That's
your job, Burke. Find proof that Mitsuyama stole the Sword of Nakamura. And find it immediately." For
a few seconds he paused, considering the small figure in the shadows by the door. "And Burke, while
you're at it, remember that even though we can't make any official accusations, a few little unofficial
rumors planted here and there wouldn't hurt. Do you understand?" The spy nodded.
"Now tell me," Andretti continued more gently, "how do you think he did it? And when?"
Burke looked relieved by the change of topic. This was something he could handle. He shrugged,
confidence returning. " 'How' is easy: the PlainsLords have agents coming in and out of the Home Valley
all the time; Dembo alone gets four or five messengers a week. Any one of 'em could have been trained
for the job, come in carrying a message, pulled it off, and left the next day without the slightest suspicion.
"The actual job's not hard, either. The gates of the Brotherhood are closed at night, but the walls
aren't high. So getting in or out's no problem. And the shrine isn't closely guarded. Only some young
Brothers who pull honor duty. Hell, they're always dozing off. No, stealing the Sword wouldn't be all that
difficult.
"When?" he mused. "Who knows? Nobody ever checks on the Sword. It's not on display or
anything. Only person who ever touched it was the Way-Farer and he never wore it, even on special
occasions. But I'd bet it wasn't too long ago or some word would've leaked by now. How can they've
kept it so secret?"
"All right, Burke," Andretti waved his hand in dismissal. "That's all. Get back to the Plain and see
what you can find out. And tell Carston to come and see me." Not even waiting to see if the spy obeyed,
Andretti turned back to gaze abstractedly out the window once more. So tired, he thought, so tired.
Well, he comforted himself grimly, at least my exhaustion serves one purpose: I'm completely calm. Or
maybe I'm just numb. Gods! I'm so dead on my feet I don't even know anymore!
In a few moments, a light knock sounded at the door. Father Andretti called out, "Come in," and a
tall, dark, well-built man of middle age entered.
"Ah, Carston," Andretti greeted him. "Bring a cushion over and sit down. I'm too tired to move.
What have you learned?"
"Well, sir," Carston began as he settled on his cushion, "there isn't much to go on. I've questioned
everyone and searched everywhere, twice. Even ransacked the quarters of the representatives from the
Plain. Figured it couldn't hurt, even though they're outside the walls.
"Oh, by the way, much protest there. Dembo's waiting to see you to register his complaint about
being searched. Angry. Very."
"But you've found nothing at all, then? Not even a single clue?"
"Well, there was one rather strange story. Amagansarni, that sixth frame Brother from the Long Hill
Brotherhood out on the Plain, said something odd happened to him one night while standing duty at the
shrine. Sounded like a typical prank to me. He thought so."
"Prank, on someone standing guard duty at the shrine?" Father Andretti's eyebrows raised in inquiry.
"Yessir. Not unusual, really. These young Brothers from the Plain are a feisty lot. No harm. Just high
spirits. Anyway, seems the boy dozed off. Claims it was only a few minutes at most. But when he woke
up, his sword was stuck in the ground about three paces away and a Ko blossom was in his scabbard."
Father Andretti suppressed a smile. "A most adept prankster. Who?"
Carston frowned. "That's the strange point. Nobody admitted to it."
"Even under questioning?"
The dark man shook his head.
"Hmmmmmm," responded the older man thoughtfully. "A thief would hardly risk waking the guard
that way. How long ago did it happen?"
"Three days ago. That checks with the duty roster. The boy was on the graveyard shift that night.
Triple moon night, plenty of light. Not a likely night for a robbery."
"Agreed. Sounds like a dead end. Let's drop it. You said Dembo was angry?"
Carston smiled one of his rare smiles. "Did I say angry? Not strong enough. He's frothing at the
mouth. Got him out of bed myself just after the third-hour watch bell sounded. Tore his room apart."
Andretti grinned back. "Never did like that man. Sneaklizard if I ever saw one—but all of
Mitsuyama's men are like that. Wouldn't trust a one of them."
"That was old Mitsuyama's motto: 'Never trust anyone.' "
"Too bad he didn't take his own advice." The two men traded a meaningful glance.
For a moment, Carston paused. "You don't think it really happened, do you? That Mitsuyama
poisoned his father? I know he's ruthless, but his own father?"
Andretti shrugged. "All I know is what rumor says. And rumor says they disagreed. The old man saw
himself and his clan as nothing more than primus inter pares among the PlainsLords. His son had higher
ambitions. They quarreled, violently, and two days later the old man died. Whatever the truth of the
story, Mitsuyama certainly acted swiftly to consolidate his power once his father was gone. Killed his
uncle, three cousins, and several of his uncle's retainers. And then the Winston clan, his only real rivals,
were wiped out by a 'Ronin' band that was never run down. He wouldn't stick at his father."
"Or at stealing the Sword."
Andretti nodded. "It's just the kind of bold move that would appeal to him. With one deft stroke he's
managed to legitimate his refusal to support the policies of the Free Council. No Sword, no Way-Farer.
No Way-Farer, no leader. No leader, no loyalty. And he doesn't even have to deny or oppose Jerome
or the Great Way. Damn! What with this and his new army, a lot of the waverers will rally to his side."
A silence settled between the two men. From the corner of his eye, Carston studied the other man's
face. He looks so much older than he did yesterday, he thought. The lines across his forehead, between
his eyes, and at the corners of his mouth are deeper, more pronounced. Last night took a heavy toll. But
the determination and strength are still there, etched more firmly in place by the same events. He's the
hope of the Free Council and the Great Way. He's the only one smart enough and tough enough to stand
up to Mitsuyama and get us out of this mess.
Father Andretti's sigh broke into Carston's reverie. "Go see how many members of the Free Council
you can round up. Tell them we'll meet in the Council-room in an hour to discuss the situation. Also, give
me about fifteen minutes to change my robe and then have Dembo sent in. I have to listen to the man
rage; I might as well get it done with."
But Dembo wasn't raging when he arrived. He knocked quietly and entered calmly when he heard
Andretti's muffled response. With a few quick flicks, his eyes took in the room. It was moderate in size,
about ten by twelve feet. On the side opposite the door were two windows, tall and narrow. On the left
wall was a door that undoubtedly led to the sleeping chamber.
The room was sparsely furnished, as were all the rooms in the Brotherhood. But the quality of the
furnishings clearly indicated this was the room of a senior Father. For example, the mats on which
Dembo stood were finely woven with the best, thinnest reeds. And the scroll hanging on the wall between
the windows was a work of art. The flower arrangement on the floor in front of it was exquisite in its
simplicity and suggestiveness. The low table behind which Andretti sat, busily writing without looking up,
was of the very smoothest glasswood, beautifully grained and polished so that it glowed with dark light.
The cushions scattered about were plump and covered with a tightly woven fabric that would be cool
and pleasant to the touch.
The whole room breathed of serene good taste, a perfect example of the pseudo-Japanese style the
Brotherhood copied from the Home World. The affectation amused Dembo. Andretti, he could see, was
anything but serene.
摘要：

KENSHODennisA.Schmidtv2.5–fixedbrokenparagraphs,garbledtext,formatting;byperagwinn2004-09-19Thisbookisdedicatedto:NielsBohr,AlbertEinstein,WernerHeisen-berg,GeoffreyChew,andalltheothershapersofmodernphysicsMartinHeidegger,F.S.C.Northrup,StevenToumlin,HansReichenbach,FritjofCapra,andnumerouscontempor...

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