Below the Root (10 page)

I
N THE DAYS THAT
followed, Raamo thought often and with great bewilderment of the strange actions of D’ol Neric, and of the even stranger sendings that must, surely, have come from him. However, with the Ceremony of Elevation approaching, and with the obvious worsening of Pomma’s condition from day to day, there was much else to occupy his mind. Several times he caught a glimpse of D’ol Neric’s sharp-edged face and lean figure in a crowd of Ol-zhaan. but he invariably moved away quickly if Raamo tried to approach him. When the day of the Ceremony of Elevation dawned, Raamo still had not succeeded in speaking to him. On that day, a day that would bring great honor and glory to Raamo, and should also have brought him great happiness, his mind was a shambles of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

He arose early, long before the procession of Ol-zhaan would arrive to escort him to the temple, and alone in soft gray light of early dawn he searched for Peace and calm, as he had searched a year earlier on the day of his Second Counseling. Sitting cross-legged on the balcony outside his nid-chamber, he strove to become one with the calm beauty of the forest. By song and chant and meditation he soothed the torment of his mind until, as the sunlight broke through the thinning clouds and sent its gleaming shafts through the rain-wet forest, the woman, Ciela, appeared in the doorway and summoned him to the morning food-taking.

The Ceremony of Elevation began with a grand procession led by many musicians and accompanied by troupes of children wreathed in honey blossoms and carrying enormous plumes of paraso feathers. The columns of Ol-zhaan, rank on rank of stately white robed figures, seemed endless. For this one ceremony of the year, every Ol-zhaan in Green-sky was present, even those who had to journey to Orbora from distant Paz or Farvald. And at the end of the procession, dressed for the first time in the pure white shubas of their holy calling, marched the new Ol-zhaan, D’ol Raamo and D’ol Genaa.

The ceremony itself, in the vast, dimly lit Temple Hall, passed swiftly. Raamo sang the words of the sacred songs, made the responses, and repeated the solemn vows that transformed him forever from carefree Kindar to holy Ol-zhaan—leader, counselor, healer, judge, and priest, one of a small number, less than 150, in whose hands lay the destiny of thousands of Kindar men, women, and children. At the climax of the ceremony, Raamo and Genaa, having completed their vows of commitment, were led before the seated ranks of Ol-zhaan. There, from her central seat of highest honor, D’ol Falla presented each with a wand of office. Then, in their first symbolic duty as Ol-zhaan, they each in turn led the assembly in the sacred Oath of the Spirit.

“Let us now swear—” Raamo chanted, and paused while the crowd repeated the words after him, “—by our gratitude for this fair new land—that here beneath this green and gentle sky—no man shall lift his hand to any other—except to offer Love and Joy.”

The familiar words, so often repeated as to become meaningless, seemed suddenly new and strange and frightening in their hidden depths. Raamo was frightened also by the thunderous echo of the crowd to the weak thin sound that was his own voice. It was a hidden fear, obscure and nameless, but so strong that when, a moment later, Raamo was lifted high above the crowd in the symbolic Elevation, he felt something within him recoil as if in terror.

“No,” he found himself sending in mind-speech. “Do not look up to me. I am only Kindar. I am only Kindar like yourselves.”

The shouting and singing continued. Doubtless, none among the Kindar were able to pense him, except perhaps for a few children who were too young to understand what they had heard. But as his fear subsided and the full realization of what he had done became clear to him, Raamo looked back furtively to the ranks of the Ol-zhaan. Surely some of them must have pensed his sending, and their faces would show their shock and horror. But as his eyes passed down the lines of white robed figures, he read in their faces only solemn pride, calm repose, and, in one or two, what appeared to be a brief attack of drowsiness. But then, halfway down the back row, a pair of eyes met his, staring up at him with bright intensity from under a white hood. Thin lips smiled crookedly in a narrow face and, as the eyes bored into his, Raamo pensed a sending as clear and distinct as the clearest voice-speech.

“So Raamo,” D’ol Neric was sending. “I did indeed choose wisely. They don’t have you yet.”

The great hall still echoed with songs and cheers. Sitting stiffly on the ceremonial throne, held high over the heads of the crowd by a dozen strong Kindar men, Raamo stared back over his shoulder, unable to tear his eyes away from D’ol Neric, or to understand his meaning.

“I don’t understand,” he sent at last. “What is it that you want of me, D’ol Neric?”

The smile sharpened. “What do I want of you?” D’ol Neric was sending. “I want you to meet me here, in the great hall tonight. Beneath the Spirit Altar. During the first fall of rain.”

“Why?” Raamo sent, but no answer came. “I can’t!” He sent the words with all the force of his being, centering every fiber of his body and Spirit into the sending.

“You can,” the sending came again. “Come!” And then D’ol Neric lowered his eyes and sent no more.

When the ceremony was ended and all the Kindar had left the Temple Hall and the grove of the Ol-zhaan, Raamo and Genaa were given the green tabards that marked them as novices and taken to their new home. There in a cluster of chambers built around a large central hall, they would live during the three years of their novitiate. Surrounding the central hall, which was used by all as common room, dining hall and classroom, were many smaller chambers, several of which were assigned to the private use of each of the novices.

As soon as Raamo and Genaa entered the Novice Hall, D’ol Salaat presented himself and announced that it was his duty as second-year novice to make the newcomers welcome and acquaint them with their new surroundings. This he proceeded to do with great thoroughness and verbosity, making it immediately clear that the silent reserve that he had previously demonstrated had been the result of something other than natural inclination. As he chattered on and on about everything from the seating order at food-taking, to the singular honor of his recent assignment as Orchard Protector, Genaa’s responses became more and more openly derisive. At last, D’ol Druva, who was also in the second novitiate year, intervened and led Genaa away, leaving Raamo alone with his relentlessly informative host.

Staggering a little from exhaustion, Raamo followed D’ol Salaat from chamber to chamber, until at last, to his great relief, he was left alone in the chambers that had been assigned for his use. Climbing into the large, freshly woven nid, he collapsed gratefully, staring up at the empty honey lamp and trying to force the swarming turmoil of his thoughts and emotions into some sort of an orderly and meaningful whole. He had made little progress when, sometime later, he was summoned to the central hall for the evening food-taking.

The food was good and plentiful, and the other novices were friendly and curious. Genaa, too, seemed to be in excellent spirits. Apparently untouched by the stresses and strains of the long day, she joined in the conversation at the table with poise and self-assurance, laughing easily and often, and coolly refusing to be patronized by the still busily officious D’ol Salaat. But Raamo, still feeling tired and spent, and increasingly troubled by the memory of D’ol Neric’s eyes and his strange command, hurriedly finished his meal and returned to his own chambers.

Time passed, the green-tinged forest light softened and grew dim. The air cooled and freshened and at last the silence was broken by a soothing murmur. The first fall of the night rains had begun.

Raamo rose from his nid and went to the window. What should he do? What strange secret purposes lay behind D’ol Neric’s weird behavior, and what part could he, Raamo, play in those purposes? In vain, he searched his memory for a custom, a tradition or a rule that might help him determine what the proper behavior would be in the situation in which he found himself. For many minutes he trembled on the edge of a decision, moving one moment toward the window and the next back to the safety of his nid. Several times he reminded himself that he was now an Ol-zhaan and therefore undoubtedly possessed of a new and superior ability to act with wisdom and good judgment. But when his decision was finally made, it was surprisingly true to his old familiar nature.

Since his faulty memory failed to remind him of a helpful rule or custom that would solve his dilemma, his ever-troubling curiosity took over and made the decision for him. He very much wanted to know what lay behind D’ol Neric’s strange behavior. Quickly, before his resolution could waver, Raamo climbed out his window and launched himself into the rainy darkness.

Night gliding was dangerous, not only because of lack of visibility, but also because the almost constant night rains quickly soaked through silken shubas, making them uncomfortable and difficult to control. Under ordinary circumstances, anyone who was forced to venture out at night confined himself to walking and climbing. But there was nothing ordinary about any of the circumstances in which Raamo found himself, and a short terrifying drop into almost total darkness seemed, at the moment, only a natural part of a completely unnatural whole. Once airborne, however, Raamo was immediately panic-stricken, and when, a few seconds later, his flight ended abruptly in a tangle of Wissenvines, he vowed to climb down them until he reached a firm footing, if he had to go all the way to the forest floor. Fortunately, however, the tangled network of vines soon passed near a narrow grundbranch, which led down to one of the large connecting branchpaths of the temple grove. In a very short time Raamo arrived at the huge arching doorway of Temple Hall.

The empty hall, dimly lit by three small honey lamps, seemed to have grown immensely larger than it had been only a few hours before, when it had been filled with the pomp and splendor of the Ceremony of Elevation. Seemingly endless expanses stretched away into deep shadow and then on into caverns of darkness. Except for the muffled whisper of the rain, the silence was wide and soft. And yet there seemed to be in the silence a deep secret meaning, as if the huge recesses of the ancient hall were alive with memories that spoke to Raamo of things too mysterious and important to be captured in any language of tongue or mind.

Straining to hear and understand, Raamo stood silently for a long moment, before a furtive movement near the central altar caught his eye and brought him back to the present with a shattering jolt. In the darkness, the white shuba of D’ol Neric was dim and shadowy, but his sending was strong and clear.

“Raamo,” the sending asked. “Is it you?”

“I have come, D’ol Neric,” Raamo replied.

Moving slowly forward, he was soon close enough to see the strange eyes, round and dark and restless as a sima’s but at the same time possessed of a force as piercing and irresistible as unfiltered sunlight.

“I have come,” Raamo repeated, speaking now in voice speech. “But I don’t know why. What is it that you want of me?”

Grasping Raamo’s arm, D’ol Neric led him to a small cubicle behind the altar screen, apparently a storage place for robes used in the many ceremonies conducted in the Temple Hall. Draping a richly decorated robe over Raamo’s wet shoulders, D’ol Neric motioned him toward a carved panwood settee. Seating himself at the other end, D’ol Neric busied himself for several seconds with the arrangement of the settee’s cushions, positioning them carefully for his greater comfort, apparently unmindful of Raamo’s bewildered stare. At last he looked up grinning.

“Come, friend,” he said, “relax and make yourself comfortable. What I have to say to you will take some time in the telling.” His smile faded and he added grimly, “—and there will be pain enough for you in the hearing without further paining your tired bones.”

“Pain?” Raamo asked uneasily. He remembered suddenly that D’ol Neric had twice conducted the Ceremony of Healing when his sister was among the ailing. Fighting a desire to walk away without asking, without having to face the answer, Raamo forced himself to say, “You are speaking, then, of my sister? Did you call me here to tell me that she is ill of the wasting?”