Seeker (16 page)

"I won't!"

"You little fool! They'll never take you!"

The man glared at the boy for a long moment. The boy didn't move. Then the man turned and stalked away. The boy drew a long shuddering breath. The colors blazing round him were so strong that Morning Star was almost frightened. He looked and felt younger than she was, but his face was so alert, the expressions so fast-moving, that even without the colors, she was able to pick up the anger in him and knew it was stronger than the fear. His dark eyes caught hers for a fraction of a second, and she could see that he was on the point of saying something, but then he didn't. One look at her bun-like face and her peasant head-scarf, and no doubt he assumed she wouldn't understand. This disappointed and annoyed her. For this reason, she found the courage to speak first.

"Who was that man?"

"My father."

The boy shuffled along beside her in the line, eyes on the ground.

"Comforting to know he has faith in you."

That made him look at her.

"But he doesn't."

Goaded by his audible surprise, she became wicked.

"Whatever happens is the will of the All and Only. We go forward in a humble spirit of acceptance."

That left the boy speechless. He could tell that her tone was mocking, but who was she mocking?

The line of applicants was now directed across the Shadow Court to a door on the right-hand side. The door was marked
COMMUNITY ONLY.

The room they now entered was a long, high-ceilinged hall, lit by lamps hanging from the center, with benches
running along either side. On the benches sat some thirty or forty members of the Community, all wearing their badans down over their shoulders, as was the custom when inside the Nom. Morning Star's eyes searched the silent faces, looking for her mother. There were many women there among the Nomana, but none were looking towards the applicants. Wherever her mother was, she would surely be watching out for her.

At the far end of the hall, at a table set at right angles to the lines of benches, sat the two selectors. A novitiate meek, hovering by the door, indicated to the applicants that they were to wait, standing, until summoned. Then they were to make their way down the hall, between the two lines of Nomana, and give their names to the selectors. The Novice Master, who was one of the selectors, would then point to the left or to the right. The door to the left led into the novitiate. The door to the right would take them back into the Shadow Court. They were to go at once, and in silence, in the direction indicated. They were not to challenge the selectors' decision, which was final.

"Aren't we to speak at all?"

"You may ask one question, if you wish. But one question only."

"One question! Is that all?"

The novitiate meek then tapped the first applicant or the arm, and he set off down the hallway to the selectors' table. Morning Star, watching, saw how the Nomana studied him as he passed, and then turned their silent faces, one by one, towards the selectors. She guessed at once that it was this wordless judgement that was the true process of selection. By the time the applicant reached the table, the decision had been made.

The exchange that took place at the table was too low for the others to hear, and shockingly brief. The Novice Master pointed to the right, and the applicant was rejected. Morning Star, watching this, was seized again with a shivering fear. How could she make them accept her? How could her entire future turn on a short walk under the eyes of strangers?

Seeker, standing beside her, was also waiting his turn with mounting nervousness. The Novice Master knew his father well, and would certainly recognize him when he stood before him. Would he know that he was there without his father's permission? Did it matter? He was of age. On the other hand, the Novice Master would know he was the brother of the disgraced Blaze. Could that be held against him?

Around him the other applicants were discussing in anxious whispers the best sort of question to ask. Seeker, like Morning Star, suspected this had nothing to do with the selection process. He didn't know where the true test lay, but in his instinctive faithfulness to the ideals of the Nomana, he took it for granted that they would get it right. His part was simply to present himself before the selectors and to trust the wisdom of a process that was beyond his understanding. If he was rejected—well, he would trust that this too was right for him. But he dreaded rejection. Rejection would mean going home, to his father.

Who among them would be accepted? He glanced round and saw Fray looking at him, his eyebrows lifted in an expression of amused surprise. He looked away and met the eyes of the girl he had run into, the one who had said such odd things. As their eyes met, she pulled a funny little face. It was a smile, but its meaning was, Isn't this unbearable? He shook his head, confused. Her smile implied she knew him already, but this was not so.

There came a loud bang from behind them. The rear door had been thrown open. A strong young voice called out, breaking the silence.

"Heya, hoodies! Do you lo-o-ove me?"

All heads turned, astonished. There stood a handsome youth in brightly colored clothes, with silver bangles all down his arms. Seeker, staring with the rest, knew that he had never seen anyone like him in all his life. Not just the gaudy dress and the long golden hair: it was the swagger and the smile and the bold cry. The Wildman was everything the Nomana were not.

The novitiate meek hurried forward. "No, no, no!" he said.

"Yes, yes, yes!" said the Wildman, sweeping the meek aside with one golden-skinned arm. He strode down the hallway, nodding and smiling to the Nomana on either side as he went.

"Heya, hoodies!" he greeted them. "I want to be like you!

When he reached the selectors' table, he put one hand into his pocket and threw a scatter of gold shillings onto the papers before them.

"I pay my way," he said with pride. "I want your power. I want your peace."

The Novice Master looked from the gold to the smiling youth standing before him. He spoke gently.

"What is your name?"

"They call me the Wildman."

"We have no use for gold here, Wildman."

The second selector, a thin, bony woman, picked up the gold shillings, one by one, to return them. The Wildman stopped smiling.

"You won't take my gift?"

"No."

"Blubber-piss hoodie!"

His right hand shot out, reaching for the Novice Master's neck. The Wildman had a powerful grip, and the Novice Master had a thin neck. The Wildman had squeezed the life out of better necks than this. But somehow he misjudged the distance. His fingers closed on air.

He tried again, stabbing forward with his right hand, snatching for the throat. The owl-like eyes of the Novice Master stared back at him, never moving. But once again, the Wildman found he had not reached far enough.

The woman selector leaned forward and held out his gold shillings. On the back of the hand that held the coins, he could see the tendons working her fingers like wires.

"It's not your time yet," she said.

He took the coins. She then raised the hand that had held them and, with the palm turned outward, gave the air a little push, towards him. The Wildman stumbled backwards, as if he had been struck a soft but irresistible blow. Then he felt a jerking sensation in his legs. Quite unable to stop himself, he began to stalk towards the door that led out into the Shadow Court. Left foot, right foot, away his feet went, and the rest of him had no choice but to be carried away, too. The situation was ridiculous. It was humiliating. It was exactly as if he were being marched away, except that it was he himself who was doing the marching.

"Blubber-piss hoodies!" he yelled as he went, shaking his gold shillings. "You'll pay for this!"

The meek by the exit opened the door, and out went the Wildman, and peace returned to the selection process.

One after another, the waiting applicants made the short walk down the hall, and most were rejected. Seeing this, and not knowing how to avoid the same fete, the spirits of those who remained sank lower and lower. When Seeker's turn came at last, he was so sure he too would be rejected that he approached the table in a spirit of proud defiance.

"My name is Seeker after Truth."

The Novice Master gazed quietly back at him and said nothing. Seeker looked into those big blank eyes and saw there that the decision had indeed been made. He was not accepted. There was no need to ask a question. He had been given his answer.

"It's not fair," he said. He knew it was the wrong thing to say, but he couldn't help himself. And anyway, they knew what he was feeling. He could see it in their eyes. So why pretend?

"Just like you weren't fair to Blaze."

The Novice Master gave a slight bow of his head, which might have been an admission of unfairness, and then he raised his right hand and turned it the smallest distance, towards the door. Seeker knew he was on the point of tears. He argued no more. All he had left was his pride. Keeping his head high, he crossed the floor, and the meek opened the door for him to pass through, and closed it after him.

As soon as he was outside, the hot tears came. They were tears of shame, tears of bitterness. He felt as truly cast out as Blaze had been. They had rejected him
without a word!
It had been enough to look at him to know he was not fit to join the Nomana.

But I am fit! I heard the voice! Why can't they at least give me a chance? It's not fair!

This was the worst of it. He burned with injustice. His father would say, "I told you so. Do you believe me now?" But Seeker did not believe him, or the Novice Master. He believed the spirit in himself, and the voice that had spoken to him. He knew he was born to be a Noma. How could they not see it? He would prove them wrong. He would—

What could he do? Where could he go? Not home. Not to the schoolroom tomorrow. Not back to his father's plan for his life.

Then it came to him: the simple, the obvious, the impossible, the only way to go. It was madness, but at least it offered hope.

Unaware that the tears were streaming down his cheeks, oblivious to the curious or sympathetic looks he received from departing pilgrims, he made his way down the steps, his new goal glimmering before him like a distant guiding light.

***

"My name is Morning Star."

The two selectors looked up at her in silence. She felt her cheeks burning. Was this the time to ask her question? Should she wait for them to speak first?

Then the Novice Master was looking down. She saw his hand begin to move. Was it over? Was it decided? Surely that hand could not be beginning a move to the right?

"Please," she said. "I have a question."

The Novice Master's hand became still. He looked up again. Morning Star had prepared several questions. What she actually said was not one of them.

"Where's my mother?"

She caught a flicker of surprise in the Novice Master's bulbous eyes. Of course: her question on its own would make no sense. Somehow she had assumed they would know.

"My mother joined the Nomana thirteen years ago."

"Your mother is a member of the Community?"

"Yes."

"What is her name?"

"Mercy."

The Novice Master reached for a book in front of him. He spoke to his colleague.

"Do you know the name?"

The second selector shook her head.

"We have no one in the Community of that name."

The Novice Master ran his eyes down a list in the book.

"No," he said. "Your mother is not a member of the Community."

Morning Star, already made intensely nervous by the process of selection, found herself unable to understand what they were saying.

"But she is! That's why she left us! To serve the All and Only."

"It may be what she intended to do," said the Novice Master. "But it seems she was not accepted."

Morning Star could see from their colors that they were telling the truth. But how?

"That's impossible! She must be here! If she's not here, where is she?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know."

He lifted his hand and turned it to the right. In a daze, Morning Star went to the outer door, and into the Shadow Court.

The shock of learning her mother was not a Noma was for the moment greater than the shock of her own rejection. She stood motionless in the dark and echoing court. Through the open doors of the high arch, she could see the last pilgrims leaving the stands and making their way home. The Congregation was over. She too must leave.

All these years she had believed her mother was one of the superior beings called the Nomana. That was why her mother had left her husband and child. That was the only reason that made sense. They had been proud of her for it. Morning Star had grown up wanting to follow in her path. And now—she wasn't here. What path had she taken? Where had she gone? Why hadn't she come home?

As this thought took hold of her, the full horror came rushing in, to fill up her heart and mind, making her feel sick and weak. It was just as Filka had said. Her mother had not come home to her because she didn't love her. What else could she believe? That she was dead?

Yes! Let her be dead! Then she could still believe in her love! Better dead than alive and not caring enough to seek out her child again!

One of the meeks coughed softly behind her and indicated that she should move on down the steps, along with the last of the pilgrims. Morning Star had no resistance left in her. She obeyed, no longer caring where she went.

I'm a wicked girl, she thought. I want my own mother to be dead. No wonder the Nomana rejected me. Why did I ever think I was worthy of so high an honor? I'm ugly and dull and bad, and even my own mother didn't want to come back to me.

Misery swept over her in a wave that was too strong to be contained. As the great sobs came rolling out of her, ashamed of her grief, she stumbled off the steps and along one of the island's terraced streets and found a dark corner by a wall where she would not be seen. Here she crouched down and clasped her arms round her knees and cried and cried until she could cry no more. She fumbled in her bag and took out the plait of wool her father had given her, and pressed it to one damp cheek.