A Blackbird In Darkness (Book 2) (37 page)

‘Our being, as you know, is devoted to philosophising upon the Earth’s existence and the nature of the universe. But it is rare that humans actually seek us out, very rare indeed. Tell us, is there a specific theme that you wish to debate?’

‘Yes,’ said Ashurek. ‘We hope you might help us find something that is lost. Do you know of the Serpent M’gulfn?’ All the philosophers murmured that they did. ‘Its evil is gradually strangling the world. We three intend to destroy it, but before we can do so, we must seek a certain creature.’

‘Destroy it?’ Pellar exclaimed, its opal-black eyes glistening. ‘That would be impossible. The Serpent is the embodiment of the supreme being, a god. Its power is the life-force of the Earth; nothing can exist without it. If you destroy it, you destroy life itself.’

The neman’s words had such gravity, such authority, that Estarinel’s heart sank. He believed Pellar in a way he had not wholly believed Ashurek or even Hranna. Now he had heard this argument from three separate sources, and its weight became irrefutable. The Guardians really did not care, and the H’tebhmellians had themselves been abysmally deceived into thinking there was hope.

‘Ah, but does the Serpent actually embody the ultimate divine or just the idea of the ultimate divine?’ another neman put in.

‘It is the same thing, Evor,’ said Pellar. ‘What is any god but an idea? There is nothing higher than ideas. The Serpent is a pure idea. It is neither good nor evil, but there is nothing more powerful.’

‘You are saying that we are wrong to try to slay M’gulfn?’ Ashurek said sharply.

‘In that you are attempting something utterly impossible anyway, it hardly matters. But if, in theory, you succeeded, the Earth would cease in the same instant. Do you see?’ Pellar rested its chin in one of its dark hands, and looked impassively at Ashurek.

Then Valcad spoke, its rich, thoughtful voice carrying equal authority to Pellar’s. ‘I have to disagree. I think there is no supreme god in such a literal sense, Pellar. The Serpent is but an animal. Or perhaps it does not even exist at all. It is but a scapegoat for all the Earth’s evils, so that whatever happens, men can say, “It is the Serpent’s doing.”‘

This also rang uncomfortably true to Ashurek.

‘But these three humans believe it exists,’ said Evor. ‘That is what matters. The question is, why would they set out to destroy their own belief? They are trying to destroy themselves.’

‘Then the Serpent is a symbol of something they hate within themselves,’ said Valcad.

‘Just so. This is evidence of mankind’s intrinsic self-loathing.’

‘Not so!’ Pellar exclaimed. ‘It is a sign of mankind’s intrinsic arrogance; he cannot bear the knowledge that there is any being higher than himself. So arrogant is he that he would set out to destroy his god? Even though it means the loss of his own life and all other life also?’

Silvren had spoken of arrogance, Ashurek recalled. It seemed to be something that the Shana had caused her particularly to despise within herself. And yet, in reality, there could be no one less arrogant, more loving, than Silvren. He said, ‘Pellar, if we are to follow your argument to its logical conclusion, we should surrender our arrogant selves to the Serpent and prostrate ourselves in abject worship of it forever. Is this preferable to the Earth being destroyed?’

‘I know not. Perhaps it is the only cure for the pain of human existence,’ Pellar replied. Some of the philosophers nodded in agreement, and began to talk amongst themselves.

‘I disagree,’ said Valcad. ‘They would only be surrendering to something they loathe within themselves. Destruction would be better than that. But, as the Serpent is only a symbol, destruction is not in question. Except figuratively. They may indeed risk destroying their Selves.’

‘Can I say something?’ Estarinel said, his voice low with incredulous anger. ‘You speak of the Serpent as if it were hypothetical, to be proved or disproved by argument. But it is real. I have seen it. It has murdered my friends and family and it continues to murder the world over, not because it knows no better, but because it has a malevolent hatred of life. Don’t tell me that it is not real and not evil!’

‘We do not dismiss this point of view,’ said Pellar, unmoved by his outburst. ‘But everything that appears to be, must still be proved by reasoned argument. And reason shows that very little can actually be proved.’

‘Then you could sit and argue for eternity, and never achieve anything!’

‘Yes,’ said Valcad ironically, ‘that is precisely our purpose.’

‘I wonder if they have proved that that is their purpose,’ muttered Ashurek, but Valcad and Pellar heard him.

‘This is in itself a fascinating question,’ Pellar said. ‘I have often proposed that we should devote time to philosophising upon our own existence, instead of men’s, simply because we are not men.’

‘And I disagree, because without men there would be nothing for us to philosophise upon and we would not exist,’ said Valcad. ‘The business of ideas is to explain the world of experience.’

‘On one level. But nothing has a higher reality than ideas,’ Pellar answered. ‘Perhaps there is nothing higher than ourselves. Therefore we should not consider men’s existence as doers – but our own existence as thinkers.’

‘But humans are the reflection in which we see ourselves,’ said Evor.

‘But what are we?’ asked Valcad. ‘In all our ponderings we have not found the identifying essence of the universe. We have achieved nothing. Perhaps that makes us nothing.’

‘But our purpose is not to achieve, but to think,’ said Pellar.

‘We have achieved this much: the knowledge that there is no ultimate knowledge!’ exclaimed Evor.

‘We have no proof of that,’ said Pellar. ‘Perhaps all our ponderings so far are but a veil, concealing the highest idea of all. These humans have caused us to debate upon the Serpent M’gulfn; this may be a hint as to the direction our thoughts should take towards that end.’

Ashurek realised that this discussion was doomed to continue indefinitely. It was apparent that the Hrunneshians saw them as no more than a philosophical problem. He wondered if they were even capable of giving any material help. If not, it was time they went on their way.

‘I must intervene,’ he said. ‘We came here with a specific problem, and we do not have an endless amount of time to spend talking about it.’

‘Oh, by all means, express this problem,’ Valcad said, lifting all four hands in a gracious, curving gesture.

‘We seek a creature named Miril. We believe her to be on the Black Plane. Do you know of her?’

The philosophers all looked at each other and broke into a muttering of surprise and interest. ‘Yes, we know her,’ said Valcad. ‘She is the mirror that we know to lie.’

Ashurek’s face became baleful. He asked softly, ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

‘When we look upon Miril,’ Valcad replied, oblivious to Ashurek’s expression, ‘what we see gives the lie to the philosophical tenet which says that nothing is real until it is proved so. And, of course, almost nothing can be proved. Yet she appears to be the essence of proof that the abstract is real.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ said Estarinel.

‘Well, there are certain abstract qualities which for the sake of argument we call “hope”, “goodness”, “love”, and so on. Such qualities may or may not exist. If they exist, they cannot be touched.’

‘They are the highest of things, pure idea,’ Pellar added.

‘Yet Miril is a paradox. She is all these things, made corporeal. We look at her and what we see says, “I am real.” This is, of course, impossible. Therefore we consider her a lying mirror, which is also impossible. But then, we feast upon paradox. Has this answered your question?’

‘Where is she?’ Ashurek almost shouted, his eyes blazing.

‘She is on the other side of the Plane,’ Pellar replied benignly. ‘We requested her to remove herself there, because her guise of reality was undermining our philosophy, and her singing made it impossible to concentrate upon our thoughts.’

‘Is it possible for us to go through to the other side and find her?’ the Gorethrian persisted, his tone as controlled as a knife.

‘What has this to do with your original question about the Serpent?’ Pellar asked.

‘I don’t know. Yes, I do – she is the world’s only hope of not dying with the Serpent or continuing to live in its shadow.’

‘But she is a lying hope, which is no hope at all,’ Pellar replied, becoming lost in thought. Ashurek turned to Valcad.

‘Will you help us or not?’ he demanded, desperate.

‘I think we should help them, Pellar,’ Valcad said. ‘After all, ours is not to influence human actions. They must act as they will, and we must merely observe and analyse.’

The other philosophers concurred enthusiastically with this viewpoint. Valcad said, ‘We can take you through to the other side with relative ease, but once there, you will have to find Miril for yourselves. Some of us will come with you.’

‘At last,’ Ashurek said with a deep sigh. ‘Thank you.’

A number of inky spheres drifted across the limpid black sky of Hrunnesh. Below them passed the strange mineral landscape, shining with deep tones of bronze-red and violet. In the first globe were Valcad and Ashurek, and in the next were Pellar, Medrian and Estarinel. Then came Evor and five or six more of the nemen.

Within, the spheres still seemed no more than bubbles, smoky yet transparent, and apparently guided by the nemen’s thoughts alone.

Presently they saw below them a great, round hole in the Plane, as uncompromisingly black as the stuff of the nemen’s tunics. The spheres began to descend towards it. As they floated below its rim, there was no shifting of gravity such as they had experienced in the shafts of the White Plane. Instead it was like entering a vortex. The spheres were sucked at vertiginous speed into the shaft, and absolute darkness closed around them. Estarinel closed his eyes and swallowed hard, praying that it would be over soon. Pellar said matter-of-factly, ‘Do not fear.’

They fell for what seemed an age. At last their descent slowed and the spheres began to float lazily, bubble-fashion, again. Valcad told Ashurek that they were now on the other side of Hrunnesh.

There was not even the dimmest illumination here. All was absolute midnight black. The philosophers caused the globes to land on an unseen surface. Through the bubble-skins of the spheres, they emerged into a place of dark, wet stone that was eternally lightless.

Estarinel located Ashurek by the sound of his voice and led the still-catatonic Medrian over to him.

‘We will stay by the spheres,’ said Valcad, ‘while you search.’

‘Have you no kind of light to guide us?’ Ashurek asked.

‘No, I’m afraid not. Even we cannot see on this side of Hrunnesh, so I suggest that you do not go far, and that you locate us again by voice.’

‘Which direction do you suggest we try?’

‘With infinite choice, I hesitate to suggest any. However, you may hear her singing.’

‘Come on,’ Ashurek said to Estarinel. ‘Put Medrian between us, so we don’t lose each other.’

Even as he spoke, a solitary, haunting, sorrowful chirp pierced the darkness. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. And Ashurek shouted, ‘Miril!’ and ran blindly away from the others, heedless of Estarinel shouting at him to wait.

Ashurek ran headlong through impenetrable night, shouting Miril’s name. Beneath his feet the uneven, wet rock jarred and tripped him every few steps. He was oblivious to that, and even to the possibility that more dangerous drops might loom ahead. The darkness, the fear of never finding his companions again, meant nothing to him; his only thought was Miril.

At last missed his footing and fell. He lay half-stunned on the damp, unforgiving surface, unable to cry out or move. And somewhere in the darkness his father, the Emperor Ordek XIV, leaned over him and said, ‘Most beloved of my sons, you have failed me. Through you the pride and glory of Gorethria have been debased and lost. You shall walk in shame, clothed in the ash-grey of mourning, and the portals of your motherland shall forever be closed against you.’

‘Yes, Father. It is no more than I deserve,’ Ashurek answered. And he lay, purged of all motive and memory save that of his terrible betrayal of Gorethria – waiting for death to come.

He had never realised that death sang as it came, a sweet, mourning song like that of a lost bird. The singing was all around him, clamorous and beautiful and full of tragedy. ‘Ashurek,’ sang a voice by his ear. ‘Ashurek, do you not know me? Ah, will you ever know me?’

‘Miril,’ he gasped, and sat up, shaking and barely able to breathe.

‘Yes, here am I,’ she chirped. ‘I am real. Can you not see me?’ And in the darkness he could see her, a small bird as black as Hrunnesh, outlined by a faint silvery light. She perched on his knee, looking at him. He could see her eyes, the eyes that had first shattered his innocence and made him understand the appalling evil of Gorethria’s tyranny. He stretched out a hand until his fingertip brushed her feathered breast, and in that touch he felt the grief and agony of every country Gorethria had ravaged: every village burned, every prisoner tortured in Shalekahh’s dungeons; every child orphaned and wife widowed by the wars. And behind all was amorphous mass of power that he had glimpsed and lusted after in the Dark Regions, the soul of the Egg-Stone, which now drove him to annihilate the Earth.