Heriot (30 page)

S
o Heriot wandered out into the world, leaving the towers of Guard-on-the-Rock behind. He strolled through the Third Ring, his back to the Bramber and the great castle embraced by its flowing waters. Strolling on in a leisurely yet determined way, he stared with a new curiosity at the great houses and gardens which were so familiar by now but which also seemed as if, given the right command, they might be able to renew themselves.

Leaving them behind he came out into the Second Ring, and felt himself touched with an edged energy, almost like a fury burning up within him. It was not his own fury, but the fury of people wheeling and dealing, arguing, planning, clashing, resolving … He strode on, staring around him almost as if he were a visitor who had never seen the city before. Something like wonder crept into his expression as he slipped between the tall buildings and out into the open spaces of the seething markets, for maybe true life was being lived here. It was impossible to be sure.

As he went by, people stopped talking mid-sentence, and looked around, apparently bewildered for a moment as if some alien thought had intruded into them, blotting out their own thoughts. But then, as Heriot … that distortion in the world’s unconscious view of itself … moved on, the moment of puzzling possession moved on with him, and the people
shrugged, and laughed. ‘A ghost walked over my grave,’ they told one another, as they went on talking, choosing to shrug off that moment of incoherence that had come out of nowhere. So Heriot wandered on, moving unchallenged through the gate between the Second and the First Ring, and all the time it seemed to him that Cayley, the wild and damaged child, the central sign of the city, was dancing beside him, laughing and talking, carrying in her very centre the image of the man who had killed her twin … who would certainly have killed her if he had known she had been born, if he had known she was hidden there in the long grass … that Hero who was her father.

But the very moods and determinations that had enabled Lord Carlyon to become the Hero had enabled his daughter to sleep in gutters and steal from stalls, to dance, making up songs and chants to dance to, treating each blow the city aimed at her like a thrust from a possible striking sword. The Hero had passed on his power and skill to his girl child. The Third Ring, her ruthless tutor, had taken her in, imposing challenges of starvation and death, and she had laughed, being quick – dodging from under its slashing blows.

Heriot thought of her scarred throat and damaged voice, and wondered how anyone could ever have taken her for a boy. But they had. He had, himself. He had believed in her because she had become, in so many ways, what she had commanded herself to become. And he had also believed in her because, as a boy wandering on the causeway, he had been struck down by the power of the trauma that even at that moment was in the process of forming her. It had somehow formed him too.

So he walked on beyond the city, reaching out to inhabit advancing trees, birds, plants and miraculous dust – dust so wonderful, each grain holding a whole universe – trekking on and on over days and nights, circling around towns and
villages, and finally crossing a wild heath until he found himself in a forest he knew.

Pushing along a winding track through the trees, taking in every branch, every twig, every changing leaf, he found himself, yet again, in that deserted village in the wild wood. Once he was there he slept … not because he was unduly tired, but because in sleep he was able to dream his way back through his past life, correct the distortions Diamond had imposed on it, able to sink at last into the true mystery of existing like a true Magician – to soak outwards into the vast spaces beyond the moon, to soak inwards, down and down, into huge spaces at the heart of wood and stone, the space within his own heart and head, spaces which were not simply emptiness, not simply the absence of anything else, but an essential part of the structure of the world.

For weeks he lived a very simple life – eating fruit and watercress, catching fish from time to time, wandering to the nearest village to buy bread and cheese, dreaming himself in and out of it all.

And then, one day he felt an intrusion and opened his eyes to find Cayley standing over him.

She still wore her hair in Wellwisher braids, and was rather more richly dressed than he had ever seen before, but there was an entirely new feeling about her … a sort of huge ease, as if she, too, had been released at last from some ruthless oppression.

‘I found you,’ she said. ‘No hiding from me.’

‘I wasn’t hiding,’ he answered. Then added, ‘Well, maybe from Diamond. But I knew you’d find me whenever you wanted to.’

She made a gesture, sweeping the folds of her cloak, left and right. One of her hands was covered in a black velvet glove. As he watched, she drew it off and held out towards him a hand
beautifully shaped, moulded of silver and set with small jewels.

‘That’s a work of art,’ said Heriot admiringly.

‘It’s what we both are,’ she said. ‘Both of us. Works of art.’

‘I knew you’d come. I was always in touch with you there, and then I could feel you, coming closer and closer. Do you remember how to kiss?’ inquired Heriot.

Later he asked after Dysart and Linnet.

‘Them?’ said Cayley. ‘They’re so happy they give off happiness like candles give off light. And the thing is, the King’s still there, but somehow he’s sharing what he is with Dysart. Betony sleeps on, dreams on, smiling in wonder at his own dreams … but Dysart and the King – they talk it all over together – policies for Diamond, plans for Hoad, peace for everyone. That game! Oh, they’re so pleased with themselves.’

‘We should call in on them,’ Heriot said. ‘Though maybe not for a while. I think we should go wandering … wander through all the counties of Hoad and tie them together, reinforce the land, and ourselves at the same time.’

Cayley was silent for a while. ‘It sounds wonderful,’ she said at last. ‘Your idea of wandering, I mean. If I had to choose over the next year I’d choose to wander and see it all. Being free, that is. Free of Diamond. But mostly free of myself … free of what I’ve been. You know, suddenly as I was fighting Carlyon and he lay there in front of me, all I could do was laugh … laugh at him, but mainly laugh at myself too, because I’d been ridden for so long by the vision of dealing that final blow. I turned away from him. I felt suddenly free from the charge of it all, and I was going to let him go free too, poor fool. I laughed a bit. But he couldn’t stand that, could he? Being laughed at, I mean. And I’ve inherited a bit of his pride. I’d like to be set free of myself.’

‘I don’t suppose we’re ever totally free of ourselves,’ Heriot said. ‘But let’s try. Let’s set out together. If you
can
travel, that is.’

Cayley smiled almost shyly down into the leaves and grasses. ‘You know already, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I was planning to surprise you, but no surprising a Magician I suppose. Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?’

‘I can’t help knowing. It calls out to me, wanting attention. “Hey you!” it says “I’m on my way. Do you want me to tell you who I am?”’

‘Not a word! Let it surprise one of us,’ Cayley said. ‘I never dreamed of this for myself, so it’s a surprise already, but I like to think there are still amazements ahead. So let’s walk on!’

One fine day, as the sun rose, tranquil but implacable, four different lives – remarkably different lives – began working their way away from one another. They had been such mixed lives it would have seemed impossible that the people living those lives would ever manage to live either together or apart, but a noble girl and a Prince were being drawn together, embraced by a city, commonplace in many ways yet always mysterious. A Magician and a wild girl set off, walking through a forest with the sun behind them, feeling the endless growth around them, the bursting of seeds, the impulses of nesting birds, feeling the way the world worked, dissolving, always dissolving, yet locking itself together over and over again. On they went, both finding some part of themselves, not only in one another but waiting for them in the world out there. Magician and warrior, they were about to be completed in ways they had never totally anticipated.

A story has to end somewhere. This story ends here.

Margaret Mahy is the author of over 100 children’s stories and groundbreaking novels for young adults. She has won numerous awards and prizes for her writing, including the Carnegie Medal for
The Changeover
and
The Haunting
, and the Hans Christian Anderson Award. Margaret lives in New Zealand.

MADDIGAN’S FANTASIA