This Star Shall Abide (27 page)

“Is it more than you bargained for?” Stefred inquired.

“Yes,” said Noren candidly. “I thought I wouldn’t be expected to say anything I didn’t mean. Well, I was mistaken about the Prophecy and the High Law, and I’m willing to admit it; but I’m not
sorry
for having been a heretic. At the time I couldn’t have been anything else.”

“You agreed that there can be no self-justification.”

“There’ll be no self-abasement, either! To say my opinions were wrong is one thing, but to declare that I was morally wrong in holding them would be something else entirely.”

“We will not ask you to lie,” Stefred said slowly. “If there are things in the statement that are untrue, strike them.” He held out his stylus.

Noren took it and did a thorough editing job; then, without comment, he handed the paper back. The Scholar perused it carefully. “You’ve removed all references to penitence,” he observed.

“I’m not penitent, sir.”

“You will wear penitent’s garb, and your hair will be cropped short.”

“I’ll submit to whatever indignities are required of me, but I will not proclaim guilt I don’t feel, Stefred.”

Stefred eyed him. “What happens to an impenitent heretic, both during the ceremony and afterwards, is not quite the same as what is done with someone who repents,” he said evenly.

“I can’t help that.”

“Aren’t you being inconsistent? You tell me you must recant because heresy strikes at the cause for which the First Scholar was martyred; surely you’re aware that a display of repentance would be far more convincing than the mere admission of error—”

“I’ve been perfectly consistent right from the beginning,” Noren declared obstinately. “I said at my trial that keeping things from the villagers was wrong, and it is. I’m recanting only because I’ve learned that there’s something worse. There will always be heretics, and there should be; I won’t tell people that heresy’s a sin. To affirm the Prophecy and the High Law is as far as I’ll go.”

“So be it, Noren,” said Stefred. He rose, Noren following, and for a few minutes they stood side by side looking out at the darkening sky. “I know you’re wondering what’s going to become of you when this is over,” the Scholar continued, “but I can tell you only that though the difficulties will be greater than you imagine, I think you’ll prove equal to them. I must say no more until after the ceremony three days from now.” As an afterthought he added, “You will not understand the whole ceremony at first; remember that I’m on your side, and that I’ll have reasons for what I do.”

“Three days?” faltered Noren. “I—I’d rather get it over with tomorrow.”

“No doubt you would, but a little time for reflection will be good for you. You’ve shifted your whole outlook at a very rapid pace; this is a major step, and you mustn’t rush into it.”

Noren shuddered. Stefred was right, he knew; yet he was inwardly afraid that if he didn’t rush into it, he would never have the courage to carry it through.

*
 
*
 
*

The next days were the longest Noren had ever spent. He was left entirely alone; the Technicians who brought his meals did not speak to him. At least he was now trusted to see Technicians, he realized. It was no longer feared that he’d tell them any secrets. What, he wondered, would happen if he ever encountered the one who’d befriended him? It would be hard to remain silent, but he knew that he would do so, although the man would be bound to draw the wrong conclusions.

Noren dared not speculate about the future in store for him, the mysterious fate about which he’d as yet been given no information. It would not be easy to face; Stefred had often warned him of that, and so far everything Stefred had said had proved to be true. He could not be forgiven and released. It had been clearly stated that the secret could not go outside the City walls. The Scholars themselves never went out, and if they didn’t, they certainly wouldn’t let
him
do it. To be sure, he’d been told that he would be allowed to go on learning; that was some consolation. It was also consoling to know that Stefred thought him equal to whatever was going to happen.

What was going to happen during the ceremony was inescapably grim, and he had apparently made it grimmer by refusing to declare himself penitent. He could understand that. Though the Scholars themselves tolerated heresy, they could not do so publicly, and it was Stefred’s duty to persuade heretics to repent. An example must be made of those who would not. Yet Noren still wasn’t sorry; only if he had yielded before learning the truth would he have felt guilty. The fact that the system was the lesser of two evils might excuse the Scholars for establishing it, but that couldn’t excuse a person who didn’t know the facts for accepting such a system!

On the third morning two Technicians came to him. “The Scholar Stefred sends you a message,” one of them said formally. “First, you are offered a final opportunity to withdraw.”

“No,” said Noren steadily, inwardly angry. Did they want him to recant or didn’t they?

“Very well,” the Technician replied. “In that case, you are reminded that you must obey us implicitly, remembering that you have chosen to submit of your own accord.”

Noren nodded, his indignation growing. There had been no need for such a reminder.

“Finally,” concluded the Technician, “you are informed that there will be a departure from the script. After you read your statement, the Scholar will question you; he asks that you be told that he is relying on you to reply with absolute honesty.”

Stefred ought to know by now, Noren thought, that he would scarcely do anything else! But why the change in plans? It had been emphasized that the ceremony would be formal and that no departures from the script would be permitted. Still, he’d sensed from Stefred’s manner that he must expect further surprises; there was no guessing their nature.

The Technicians ordered him to change into the clothes they provided, the gray, unadorned penitent’s garb that to the spectators would be a badge of shame. He did so grimly, then sat in stoic silence while they cropped his hair. But when they proceeded to bind his wrists behind him, using not ropes but strong inflexible bands, Noren protested vehemently.

“It’s unnecessary,” he raged. “You know I’m not planning to run away from you.”

“We know, but all the same it must be done. It’s a matter of form.”

It was a matter of appearances, Noren realized miserably. The impression would be given that he was a criminal who had been browbeaten into submission; his voluntary choice of this course, his pride in honesty that overrode the sort of pride that could admit no error, would not be permitted to show. Abruptly he grasped the full import of Stefred’s remark that he could be spared nothing. To the crowd, there would be no difference between his recantation and that of the man whom he himself had held in such contempt! And perhaps there was no difference. Perhaps that man, too, had experienced the dreams before capitulating; Stefred had never said that his case was unusual.

They walked through passageways Noren had not seen before, descended in the cubicle that he’d learned was called a lift, and crossed a small vestibule, finally emerging into the courtyard that surrounded the closely-placed towers. Looking back, he recognized the entrance of the Hall of Scholars from the last dream; he had been inside it all the time, he thought in wonder. He had been in the same tower in which the First Scholar had lived and died. In there were the computers, the awesome repository of the Six Worlds’ knowledge, which he longed fervently to glimpse; would he ever be allowed to enter it again?

When they reached the dome through which one must pass to leave the City, Noren’s guards did not accompany him into the broad, high-ceilinged corridor that stretched ahead; different Technicians took over, enclosing him within the formal rank of an escort of six. The eyes of the passers-by were all upon him. Noren straightened his shoulders and raised his head, trying not to notice. This was nothing, he knew, to what he must face outside the Gates, where he would be viewed with derision and scorn.

The Gates appeared before him all too quickly, and to his surprise he recognized their inner surface; the First Scholar had gone through those doors to his death. The memory was so vivid that he found himself shivering. A Technician pushed a button set into the corridor’s wall and the huge panels began to slide back. At the same time another spoke, raising his voice to be heard above the rumble. “One more reminder: in public, the Scholar Stefred is to be addressed as ‘Reverend Sir.’”

Noren pressed his lips tightly together, holding back the ire that rose in him. His own words echoed in his mind:
It is a form, a symbol, as the words of the Prophecy are symbols
. . . .

He stepped forward into brilliant sunlight reflected from white pavement. Immediately a shout arose from the crowd, a hostile, contemptuous shout. And Noren froze, stricken by a terror he had never anticipated. It was like the dream! He was to stand in the very spot where the First Scholar had been struck down; he was being led directly and purposely to it. The sun, the noise, the enmity of the people: they were all the same—but this time there was no possibility of waking up.

The Technicians, after proceeding all the way to the platform’s edge, moved back slightly, exposing Noren to full view. There was no barrier anymore. Before him was the wide expanse of steps, the steps up which the First Scholar’s assailants had come, where he himself had been immobilized at the time of his recapture. Men and women were swarming to the top.
Blasphemer,
they had called him then, and their mood had been one of shock; now they used more vulgar epithets. Their mood was not shocked, but ugly, as on the night in the village. The crowd was far larger, however, and the hecklers were bolder, knowing him to be helpless because of his manacled wrists and the vigilance of the Technicians. Noren struggled to master his panic, realizing that, ironically, the Technicians were there not to guard but to protect him. Whatever else happened, they would not allow him to be murdered.

As he looked around, he saw to his dismay that there were no Scholars anywhere. The people would not act like this in the presence of Scholars; why had Stefred sent him out alone before he himself was ready to appear? And why, when he was doing what they had wanted him to do all along, should he be deliberately terrorized by being forced to re-enact the dream? The likenesses were too precise to be accidental.

When the first clod of mud struck him, Noren was so stunned that he nearly lost command of himself; but he quickly regained his poise and stood erect, taking it impassively. That was the only way to take it, he saw. He must not flinch from anything to which he was subjected. The sun dazzled him and the heat of it shimmered from the glaring pavement, so that the steps, the crowd, and the markets beyond the plaza all blurred into a hazy mist. He focused his eyes on nothing and tried not to think. He’d been aware that he would be despised, reviled; but having watched only the latter part of the other recantation, he had not foreseen that he would be the target of such abuse as this. The significance of the prisoner’s filthy garments had escaped him despite the traders’ then-cryptic remarks. Yet looking back, he could see that exposure to the crowd prior to the Scholars’ entrance must be a traditional part of the ordeal.

Why? The Scholars, he knew, did not believe that he or anyone else deserved punishment of this kind, and they could easily prevent it. Why didn’t they, if they disapproved of the villagers’ attitude as Stefred had claimed? Noren cringed inwardly as more and more mud was flung at him, but he let his bearing show no sign. He was meant to understand, he felt, and concentration on the effort to do so was the only defense open to him.

The Scholars could not prevent people from hating, he realized. They could only provide occasion for the hatred to be vented in relatively harmless ways. In the beginning, the First Scholar had taken it upon himself, and when it had become dangerous, he’d discharged it by allowing the villagers to throw not mud, but stones and knives.

Most villagers no longer hated Scholars. Now they hated heretics; they hated anyone who was not like themselves, either for daring to be different or simply for being so. What would happen if they were given no outlet for their hate, if those turned over to the Scholars suffered no public humiliation? Fewer heretics would reach the City! More of them would die as Kern had died! So it had to be this way, but the role of scapegoat was not forced on anyone. Stefred had not forced him; on the contrary, in the end he’d tried to dissuade him. Like the First Scholar, he stood in this spot only because he had given free consent.

As that thought came to him, Noren glimpsed a little of Stefred’s design. The similarity to the dream was not intimidation; instead, it was meant to bolster his self-esteem. The villagers hated him, misunderstood him—but they’d hated and misunderstood the First Scholar, too, and he was facing them for the First Scholar’s own reasons. The people who’d once been on his side now despised him most of all, for they thought recantation a coward’s act, a sellout; and though he knew better, it was hard not to feel that the surrender he’d fought so long would diminish him. The carefully arranged comparison was a reminder that it would not. Moreover, it was Stefred’s subtle means of bestowing on him a status that the Scholars could not openly confer. To them, it must seem honorable to walk in those footsteps; the assumption that he too would find it so was a tacit endorsement of his inner equality.

With sudden insight Noren perceived that all he had ever believed, all he had ever done, had led inexorably to this moment. This, not the inquisition, was the true trial of his convictions. It was easy to uphold them when to do so meant merely to defy authority. To do so in secret, when not even his fellow-rebels would give him credit for it, was the only real proof that they meant more to him than anything else—and that he could trust himself to follow his own way.

He waited in silence, and the people went on pelting him with mud until his bare arms were splattered with it and the penitent’s garb was no longer gray, but brown. He did not move; he did not bend his head; and somewhere inside he began to know that he was not really suffering any indignity. Dignity came from within; it could not be affected by a barrage of insults and filth.