It struck her then that she had now ridden for the first time—badly, it was true, but she had begun.
"Let's try again," she said. "And, this time, slowly."
She climbed onto Kell's back once more and gripped tight to his mane. Kell set off at a slow walk. She felt the rolling rhythm beneath her and wondered very much how she could possibly stay on at a faster pace without clinging to his neck. She tried to anticipate each roll with a shift in her own body weight, and got it wrong. Once again she tipped too far to one side, and once again she fell off.
Falling off hurt. She felt annoyed. It looked so easy when the Orlans did it.
She mounted once again.
"Please, Kell," she whispered, "don't make this any harder than it needs to be."
Kell started off walking sedately once more, and Echo rolled from side to side on his back, staying on only by means of the viselike grip of her thighs. Then Kell broke into a trot, and everything changed. Up and down she bounced, like a pea on a drum, and every moving part of her body from her teeth to her toes jiggered and jaggered, so that she supposed very soon now she would fall to pieces. Then, with a sudden lurch, Kell broke into a canter. After the bone-rattling jog of the trot, this was a far easier matter, but they were now moving fast, and with each swoop of motion, Echo so very nearly fell off that she threw herself forward and wrapped her arms round the horse's neck as she had done before. But then Kell changed rhythm again, and now he was thundering over the hard earth at a true gallop.
Now Echo knew she would fall—and would fall hard.
"Kell! Please, Kell!" she gasped.
But on they swept, down the cart track and along the edge of a leafless wood. The trees flashed by in flickers of light and dark. Echo lurched this way and that, expecting each lurch to land her in the ditch. Then it seemed to her that Kell was slowing down. She felt the kinder rhythms of the canter and sighed with relief. Then came the trot. Shaken and aching as she was, the trot was more than she could manage. She released her tensed legs and let herself be jiggled to one side; and from there she slithered gracelessly to the ground.
So that was riding. Not the elegant birdlike flying she had imagined. Not sweeping and effortless, like racing through the trees. It was bumpy and scary and made her ache all over.
"Not your fault, Kell. I'm just not doing it right."
Kell pressed his nose against her shoulder, as if to say, Come on, get up.
"Let's just walk for a while."
She had no idea of the way back to the camp. She had been too busy holding on to take account of where they had come. So she let Kell lead as they walked, trusting that he knew where he was going.
Soon they were on a roadway that ran alongside an old tumbledown wall. Sitting by the wall, on nothing at all that Echo could see, was an elderly man. He had long tangled gray hair, and his face was the wrinkliest face she had ever seen. The wrinkles went up and down, and running across the up-and-down wrinkles were sideways wrinkles, and all round his eyes were arrow wrinkles. Even his nose seemed to have been scrunched up and left out in the rain. The effect of so many wrinkles was to give him a permanent expression of humorous kindliness.
His brown eyes peered shortsightedly at Echo and Kell as they approached. He was wearing clothes of a style that was unfamiliar to her. The outer coat was dark blue and long, with buttons up the front, and split at the back like a bean pod. The inner coat was gray and belted at the waist. He was barefoot.
"Good afternoon," he said, rising to his feet. He drew from behind the split in his coat a stout walking stick with a hinged handle that doubled up as a small seat. He made Echo a small bow.
"Is your horse injured? Perhaps I can be of assistance."
"No," said Echo. "My horse isn't injured."
"But you don't ride."
"I haven't yet learned to ride."
"Not learned to ride?" He chuckled as if she had said something comical. "No need to learn to ride. Your body knows how to ride a horse."
"Not my body, I'm afraid," said Echo. "I fall off."
"That is because you want to fall off."
"Want to fall off? Why would I want to fall off?"
"Oh, fear, of course. Fear lies behind most foolish behavior. Riding the horse frightens you, so you arrange to fall off."
Echo was about to say that falling off frightened her more. But she decided not to. She was interested in the old man's notions.
"So how do I stop myself?"
He squinted at her.
"You don't think I'm talking nonsense?"
"No. That is, I'm not sure."
"Very well. If you truly understand what I'm telling you, there's nothing more to be done. Your desire will already have changed. Remember, dear girl, everyone always gets what they want."
Echo didn't agree with that at all. But she didn't want to argue. She wanted to learn to ride.
"So what do I do?"
"Ride. If that's what you want."
So Echo scrambled up onto Kell's back once more and told herself she wanted to ride and not fall off. Nothing felt any different. It still seemed to her that she would crash to the ground at any moment.
Then Kell gave a funny little shiver. As he did so, she felt her thigh muscles relax. She hadn't realized how tightly she'd been gripping with her legs. As her muscles let go, Kell's back and flanks changed shape beneath her. Or perhaps her legs changed shape. Whatever it was, she slipped into a new posture that was much more comfortable. All at once it seemed her body fitted on the horse's body. Sensing this, a ripple ran up her spine to her shoulders and down her arms, and the stiffness of her back softened into a shallow curve.
Was I so stiff? she thought, amazed.
With each adjustment of her position, Kell shifted, too. It was exactly like the business of getting into her bedroll at night: a kind of wriggling and snuggling to achieve just the right warmth and safety for the surrender to sleep.
Kell began to move. Now Echo certainly did feel different. She felt the thigh muscles on his right foreleg shift beneath her, and the same shift flowed upwards into her muscles. So it was with the left rear leg. As the position of balance changed, her weight rolled like water into the still center.
"Oh, you're so beautiful!" she cried to Kell.
The horse had done no more than take two paces, and Echo was entranced. The old man had been right. She had never learned this, and never could. This sweet true motion was something she could only accept, with gratitude and joy.
She leaned a little forward, not thinking to give any command, and at once Kell picked up speed.
"Oh, Kell!" she whispered. "Shall we ride? Shall we ride and ride forever?"
Kell twisted his long lovely neck before her and drew breath into his lungs and lengthened his stride. The old man looked on, nodding approval, unsurprised. The wind began to gust on Echo's cheeks, stinging her eyes, and the trees down the track came dancing towards her. There was no bumping, no juddering. She was like the mane on Kell's neck, she flew free but never far. She was part of him, and they were racing over the land.
Never anything like this before, not even swinging through the trees at home. The power of the horse had become her power, his heartbeat thundered in her blood. Together they could sail the world like a cloud blown on the wind. She looked up as this thought came to her and saw the clouds above, and she felt her body shift weight once more so that she remained responsive to the horse's rhythms. She no longer looked to see where they were going. The sensation was extraordinary. The great mass of winter sky, shifting its grand gray continents above, moved with her own body here below, wild as a bird and unafraid.
Why did I ever fall off? she wondered. To fall now would take such a deliberate effort, such a perverse determination to overbalance. It was as easy as walking. Walking demands a thousand tiny shifts of the muscles with every step, but staying upright is natural—the body can be trusted to do it without being asked. It's falling that's unnatural. So she felt now, riding K
ell. She needed no skill but trust.
She closed her eyes and rode blind, feeling Kell sweep round in a long curving turn, leaning her body the way it must lean to flow with him on the turn. He was cantering more slowly now, and all of her skin was tingling with the wind and the speed. She heard the pull and blow of his breathing, and the catacat-catacat of his hooves pounding the earth. Then he was slowing to a trot, then to a walk, tossing his head, and whiffling with his nose.
She opened her eyes.
They were back before the old man.
"You turn out to be a fine rider," he said.
She smiled, her eyes still far away and dreamy from the intoxication of the ride.
"Thank you for showing me how to ride."
"Oh, my dear." He raised his arms in a delightful shrug. "Thank you for being so lovely."
"I think I must go back now."
"Yes, yes. Off you go."
Echo patted the side of Kell's neck, and Kell started to move. As they went, Echo twisted round for one last look at the old man.
"Who are you?" she called back.
"They call me Jango," he replied, and he waved his sitting-stick in the air to bid her farewell.
Now Kell was moving fast. Down the track they rode, back the way they had come, and the tumbledown wall and the old man who waited beside it passed out of sight.
As she rode, it struck Echo how easy it would be now to turn and head back west to the Glimmen. For a few moments the temptation was very strong. Never had her modest tree-bound world of home seemed so sweet to her. She thought of her father at work on his homemade furniture, beaming with pride at the way he contrived to make his couches both comfortable and light. She thought of her mother devising new color schemes for the living room and concluding, reluctantly but happily, that new curtains were needed yet again. Her parents had always seemed ridiculous to her; but now she saw and felt what she had not understood before, that in the outward form of furnishings, they filled their treetop rooms with love.
"I'll be back," she said aloud.
But not yet. Not with an Orlan army at her heels, under orders to burn the Glimmen. First she must find the Nomana, who alone had the power to humble the Great Jahan.
THE SECOND STAGE IN THE TRAINING OF THE NOMANA
Seeking
In which the novice goes on a journey
to encounter the unknown.
9. Back from the Dead
THE SPIKER CHILDREN FOUND THE FUNNY ASLEEP ON A mound of fallen leaves by the side of a stream. They could tell he was a Funny because his clothes were all torn and his face was scratched and streaked with mud. They gathered round to stare at him and nudged each other and giggled.
"Let's wake him up. Let's make him dance."
"No, don't. He'll curse us."
"I want to see him do his funny dance."
The boldest of them found a stick and poked the Funny until he emerged from his sleep, while the others stood well back. The Funny swatted the air with sleepy fists, and then he grumbled and said, "Leave off, old lady. Leave off."
The spiker children shrieked with laughter.
"Old lady! He said old lady!"
Their laughter woke the Funny, and he jumped to his feet and roared at them. He was tall, taller than they'd expected, and he had goggly eyes, and his roar was like an animal's. They scattered into the trees, still laughing. The Funny thrashed the air with his fists and then fell silent, peering crossly round him.
"Yah, Funny!" shouted the children. "Loony old Funny!"
They picked up stones and threw them at him.
"Make him growl some more!"
"Make him dance!"
The stones maddened the Funny. He set off at a loping gallop through the trees, and the children ran from him, squealing. They thought he was chasing them, but when he caught up with them, he went crashing past, heading for the beach. They realized then that he was running away from them. This made them bolder.
"Come on! Let's get him! He's trapped now!"
They followed the Funny out of the trees and onto the wide pebbly beach. It was high tide on a windy day, and the waves were rolling in and breaking in cascades of creamy foam. The Funny ran right into an oncoming wave and got drenched, then staggered back, bewildered. The children picked up pebbles, and when he turned to come back up the beach, they threw the pebbles at him, some of which struck him.
The Funny came to a stop and waved his hands in the air and made a low groaning sound.
"Yah, Funny!" yelled the children. "Dance!"
They threw more pebbles at him. He turned aside to protect his face from being hit. Another wave came rolling in and broke over him. He uttered a great roar. Then, to the children's delight, he began to dance.
Filka, who had once been a goatboy, who had once heard voices in his head, began to dance. It was all he could do when the world became too unkind. His dance never brought back the sweetness that for a time had been given to him, but it made it possible to stop feeling the hurt of his life. The dance began with spinning. Round and round he went, arms outstretched, feeling the splash of the salt water and hearing the mocking laughter of the children. Then, as the spinning became faster and faster, he started to wail and then to jump, working himself up into a frenzy. Round and round, eyes open but seeing only a blur of sky, wailing turning to howling, long body convulsing, Filka drove himself faster and faster, seeking the trance.
As a wave cascaded over him, another wave broke in his head, washing through his mouth and nose and eyes and ears, and the trance came. He went on spinning, no longer consciously exerting himself, and he uttered no more cries. His mouth hung open, and his eyeballs rolled upwards in his head, and he smiled as he went round and round.
"He's dancing! He's dancing!"
The children laughed and shouted and spun round and round themselves, in imitation of the Funny. Then the laughter stopped.
Sweeping towards them on an incoming wave was a black bobbing shape. Up it rose on the wave, and they saw arms reaching out, a white face. Screaming, they ran back.
"Dead man! Dead man!"
The sea threw the dead man straight at the Funny, knocking him down as he danced. And then the great wave sucked and growled and drew away. There on the hissing beach lay the dead man, his arms wrapped round the Funny, who lay beneath him.
"He's come for him!" squealed the children. "The dead man's come to take the Funny away!"
The Funny was struggling now, pushing himself out from under the sodden weight. He pulled himself free and stood up, but giddy from his spinning, he fell again, and his hands reached down to break his fall. His fists sank into the soft gut of the drowned man, and out of the drowned man's throat shot a squirt of seawater.
"Yeck!" screamed the watching children. "Oh, yeck!"
Then a new wave rolled over both the Funny and the dead man, hiding them from view. When it sucked back again, the children saw an astonishing sight. The Funny had hold of the dead man by one hand, and the dead man was rising up. He was moving. He was alive.
"He's made him alive! The Funny touched the dead man, and he's made him alive!"
They all saw it, with their own eyes. There on the wave-battered shore, a miracle had taken place. Awed, eager to tell the news, the children turned and ran back towards the camp where their families were waiting.
***
The Wildman woke from a dream of trying to run and not being able to make his legs move. He knew he must run, but it was so hard; they were holding him with their great hands, they wouldn't let him go.
"Let me go! Let me go!" he cried.
Then he woke. His arm was being jerked. There was thunder behind him. He was choking and couldn't breathe. He convulsed, bringing his knees up to his chest, and he vomited, again and again, pumping bitter juice from every cavity in his body.
Water crashed over him. Fear gave strength to his shattered limbs. He heaved his head out of the shallow sea and staggered to his feet and drove himself, step by heavy st
ep, up the beach to dry land.
Here he collapsed and lay pulling in long bubbly breaths. A face loomed over him, the face of a puzzled youth of his own age.
"You was dead," said the youth, eyes solemn wide. "You was dead. Now you're alive."
In the spiker camp, no one paid much attention to the children at first. They were overexcited and ran about shouting something about a dead man, but their mothers were busy skinning an ox, and their fathers were building a fire to work iron to mend the wagon wheels, so no one was listening. It was only later, over the noon meal, that the story began to come out. Of course the grown-ups didn't believe a word of it. But the children all told the same story, and seemed so sure of what they'd seen, that a group of grown-ups agreed to go with them to the beach, to see for themselves.
The beach was empty.
The children said, "He's taken him into the trees." They ran into the trees, calling as they went. "Heya, Funny! Where are you?"
They found him back where he had been sleeping before, on the mound of leaves by the stream. The dead man was with him, his back propped up against a tree. The Funny was giving him water from the stream, in a tin cup.
The children pointed. The grown-ups gathered round. They questioned the Funny.
"This man you have here. Where did you find him?"
"Came out of the sea," said the Funny, avoiding their eyes.
"He was a dead man," piped up a child.
"That so? Was he a dead man?"
"Dead and drowned," said the Funny.
"Not dead now, is he?"
"Not dead now."
"He touched him!" cried the child. "He touched him, and he made him alive!"
"Is that so? Did you make him alive?"
The Funny frowned and pondered. Then after a few moments he nodded.
"That's it," he said. "I made him alive."