Below the Root (11 page)

For a long pain-filled moment Raamo was sure that the frown on D’ol Neric’s face was caused by the need to be the bearer of such terrible news. But then he realized that he was pensing—and pensing not a reluctance to cause pain, but only surprise and bewilderment.

“I know nothing of your sister, Raamo,” D’ol Neric said at last. “I did not know of her illness.”

“But I was told that you twice sang the Psalm of Healing for her at the public ceremony in Orbora,” Raamo said. “Her name is Pomma D’ok, and she only in her eighth year and small even for her age.”

“It could well be so,” D’ol Neric said. “I have led Ceremonies of Healing in Orbora many times. But I seldom know or remember the names of the ailing. I am sorry, but I have no news of your sister.”

Relief washed over Raamo, leaving him limp and mindless, so that the strange words that were next spoken echoed in his ear chambers for several seconds before his mind allowed them to enter.

“But it is, perhaps, true that I called you here to speak of the wasting,” D’ol Neric was saying. “I called you here to speak to you of the wasting of all Green-sky.”

H
E INSISTED THAT RAAMO
call him simply, Neric, except, of course, in the hearing of others, as the respectful title D’ol was only another symptom of the illness that plagued the whole planet.

“They set themselves apart,” he said, “in every way possible. They make themselves unknowable and unapproachable—so that the Kindar will not learn the truth about them.”

“What truth?” Raamo asked.

“What truth!” Neric repeated, his voice rising almost to a shout. “A thousand truths. The truth, for instance, that the Spirit-skills are gone—dead! The fact that any Kindar, picked at random off any branchpath in Green-sky, has as much ability at pensing or grunspreking as the most honored among the Ol-zhaan. Didn’t you wonder how I dared to send you messages that would have placed me in great jeopardy had they been intercepted by my fellow Ol-zhaan?”

“But you are able to pense,” Raamo said. “If pensing is dead among the Ol-zhaan, how is it—”

“I am the only one,” Neric said. “One or two of the ancients were once able, but they are no longer. And my skill is very slight. I can pense only what is sent, and then only if the sender is skillful and possessed of great Spirit-force. Until your coming, I had not pensed anyone clearly for several years, except children, of course.”

“But why?” Raamo asked. “Why has this happened?”

“Perhaps there are many reasons, but there is one that is reason enough by itself. For many years, now, no one has been chosen who was suspected of having any skill at pensing. I, myself, would not have been chosen had they known of my slight skill.”

“But why then—” Raamo began.

“Were you chosen? Because they are desperate. They have tried everything else. They knew, of course, of your abnormal skill at pensing—and there were many who opposed your choosing, but there was one—D’ol Falla herself—who felt that your Spirit-force must be used. I had not expected them to choose you. I had almost resigned myself to the inevitable, but when I heard that they had chosen the child Raamo D’ok who, according to his teachers, was still able to pense and kiniport and grunspreke at the age of thirteen years, I was given new hope. I decided that there might be a way to stop the evil that is spreading in Green-sky—if only I could reach you in time. And if only you would help me.”

“But what evil?”

“I don’t know exactly—or perhaps I should say—entirely. Not yet. That is why you and your talent for pensing is of such great importance—as a means of—” He smiled ruefully, shaking his head. “I can see how strange and senseless this must sound to you, and how disturbing. Let me start at the beginning—at the beginning for me, that is—and tell you my story. Then perhaps you will find it more understandable.

”I came to the temple as a novice only four years ago. It is, I suppose, in my nature to be somewhat suspicious and critical, but I began my days as an Ol-zhaan full of eagerness and enthusiasm, and also full of admiration and respect for the noble and holy company in which I found myself. The Year of Honor had accomplished its insidious purpose, for me, as well as for others.”

“Purpose? What purpose?” Raamo asked.

“What purpose do you think? Have you never considered why the Chosen is subjected to a year of unrivaled glory and fame? What purpose the banquets, the assemblies, the processions of honor may serve?”

“I—I don’t know,” Raamo said. “I did not think to question. I supposed that it was—a tradition.”

Neric nodded, “And, as Kindar, we are not prepared to question tradition. But there is a reason behind the tradition. The reason is that the Year of Honor is a trap. A beautiful trap, baited by a lure as irresistible to Kindar as is honey to a moonmoth—the lure of fame and honor and power. Thus a humble Kindar can be caught and fed on pride and power until he is as unable to live without them as a Berry-dreamer to live without his Berries. To do this takes time, and it must be accomplished
before
he becomes an Ol-zhaan and begins to learn their secrets.

“But to return to my own story. I was, as I have said, as well prepared as any when I became a holy Ol-zhaan. Perhaps even better prepared, since there were reasons why the honor and glory meant even more to me than to most Chosen. However, for some reason, I have always had a tendency to see all things skeptically, and it was not long before I began to see things here in the holy temple grove that troubled me greatly.

“I learned very early, of course, as you will also, of the death of the Spirit-skills; though the Kindar are still led to believe that every Ol-zhaan can pense every thought, kiniport twice their own weight, and, by the slightest exertion of Spirit-force, send a full-grown Wissenvine spiraling to the treetops.

“This deceitfulness toward the Kindar weighed heavily on my mind, and it also troubled me to learn that even as an Ol-zhaan I was not free to make use of my own intelligence. As a novice it is easy to accept the fact that one’s life is controlled and directed by the novice-master, but you will learn that there are other masters, in every field of service and at every level of honor and importance. The chain of authority stretches unbroken to a select few, the Council of Elders, and even beyond to a group even more select and less well known, of whom I will speak shortly. And it is this small group who control not only the lives of the Kindar but the lives of all other Ol-zhaan as well.

“It troubled me also to learn of the many problems that are plaguing Green-sky, problems that are never mentioned to the Kindar, so that they know of them only through rumor and whispered conjecture. Such things as the increase of illness, the barrenness of bonded families, the increasing number of full-grown men and women who are yearly taken by the Pash-shan and, most troubling of all, the change in the appearance of the Wissenroot, which the Vine-priests seem unable to remedy. All these things, as you will soon learn, are discussed constantly in Ol-zhaan assemblies, as is the growing fear that the withering of the Root will finally allow the Pash-shan to escape into Green-sky.”

The words of Neric had filled Raamo’s mind with dark clouds of fear and confusion, but he managed to ask, “But why, if the death of the Spirit-skills are allowing these things to happen, did they choose those who have no such skills, as you say they have done for many years?”

“I
said,”
Neric said, “they chose only those who could not
pense.
I am sure they would gladly have taken one who was skilled in healing or grunspreking—particularly in grunspreking—if that person could not pense. But such could not be found. Unfortunately, the skills of the Spirit are closely related, and it is not possible to pick and choose among them. So they were forced to avoid true healers and those who might have possessed the power to control and direct the growth of plant life, in order to avoid the pensers. For these might have, by their pensing, discovered secrets—secrets that are kept hidden not only from the Kindar but also from most of the Ol-zhaan. And of which I learned only by accident.”

As he spoke, Neric leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It was soon after my own Ceremony of Elevation. I happened to be hiding behind a fall of tapestry in a small assembly room in the far-heights of the grove—a strangely isolated chamber far above the commonly used halls and chambers. Why I was there is unimportant. I was exploring out of curiosity, when I heard voices, and not having permission to be in the chamber, I quickly stepped behind the tapestry. It was not long before I realized that to reveal myself would bring much more serious consequences than I had at first imagined.

“A number of people entered the room. From my hiding place I could see nothing and hear only a part of what was said. But I heard enough to determine that I was present at a meeting of a secret group of perhaps twelve or fourteen Ol-zhaan who were known to each other as the Geets-kel. The tapestry behind which I stood was very heavy, and the voices were kept cautiously low, but I heard them speak of a place called the Forgotten where something of great importance was kept hidden. I could not identify many of the voices, but there were two that I was certain of, and one or two more that I thought I recognized. It was undoubtedly the novice-master D’ol Regle who spoke loudly and at great length concerning the need to recruit two or three new members into their society—into the Geets-kel—and there was some argument about the qualifications of those who were being considered.

“They spoke also of those being considered as possible Chosen. It was then that I first heard your name mentioned—and your unusual talents in the skills of the Spirit. The voice of the ancient D’ol Falla was unmistakable—like the sound of dry rooffronds in a high wind—and it was she who spoke in your favor. There were protests—arguments—but she returned again and again to your name, and to the withering of the Root. But later when she spoke for you in a general assembly of all the Ol-zhaan, she did not mention the Root. She spoke only of the need to restore the Spirit-skills. But it seemed to be the Root, more than anything else, that concerned these Geets-kel—that, and the Pash-shan.”

The Pash-shan. Only to hear the name spoken caused Raamo to shudder, as if someone had plucked his spine like a bowstring. “What did they say concerning the Pash-shan?” he asked.

“Enough to convince me that something is known about them that has been kept from all except these few—the ones that call themselves the Geets-kel. Something of great importance. Something that might bring an end to life on Green-sky—at least as we know it. There was one whose voice I did not recognize who kept repeating, ‘the end of life as we know it.’ ”

“But why?” Raamo could not keep the words from sounding like a moan. “Why would they hide such knowledge from the Kindar and even the other Ol-zhaan? Surely if the Pash-shan are escaping, it would be best if everyone were warned of it. Even if there was little that could be done.”

“It would seem so,” Neric agreed. “There appears to be no reasonable explanation. I have considered every possibility. It is possible, I suppose, that the Geets-kel know that the Pash-shan are, indeed, escaping, and that we are all, Ol-zhaan and Kindar alike, doomed. And since there is no remedy, they might feel it is best not to let us know. To allow us to remain carefree and happy as long as possible. However, I, myself, would not agree with such thinking. I would want to know the truth, no matter how terrible.”

“And I, too,” Raamo agreed.

“It has also occurred to me that the Geets-kel might be in league with the Pash-shan, or in some way under their control.”

“Under their control? How could that be? The Pash-shan are beasts, monsters. How could they control the actions of Ol-zhaan?”

“They are beasts, perhaps,” Neric said. “But their minds are not the minds of simple animals. We are taught that they are probably capable of Spirit-force greater, in some ways, than our own, though used only in the service of evil. Perhaps they have developed a skill similar to the ancient one of mesmerism, and by its use have made the Geets-kel into accomplices in their evil purposes. But then, again, I have thought—”

“No,” Raamo said suddenly. “I can’t—I wish to hear no more.” He covered his face with his hands and leaned forward, his body bowed as if in pain.

For several seconds there was silence, and then Neric spoke again. “Forgive me, Raamo,” he said. “I should have realized that it would be unwise to tell you so much so soon—and on this day when you were already exhausted. But I had waited so long for someone who might help penetrate the secret further. I was afraid to speak to you too soon, for fear that, knowing the truth, you would simply refuse to become an Ol-zhaan, and would therefore be of no use to me. And then, when I felt it was almost time. I was suddenly sent away to Grundbaum, and only allowed to return a few days ago. But I see now I should have waited a few days longer. I should have waited—even if the time left to us may not be long.”

“The time left to us?” Raamo’s voice shook with exhaustion and despair. “The time left to do what? What is it that you expect of me? What can I do?”

“Ah,” Neric moved closer to Raamo. “That is what we must discover first. By making use of your ability to pense and—”

“But I have already discovered that the Ol-zhaan mind-block very carefully,” Raamo said. “And I can not pense those who are mind-blocking.”

“But surely if you watch and listen constantly there will be moments when someone is careless,” Neric said. “And in the meantime it might be best if you pretended that your skill is less than it is. Or that you suddenly find it to be failing. If they believed that, they might be less careful in your presence.”

Neric stood suddenly and pulled Raamo to his feet. “But come,” he said. “We will speak again soon. But for now we must get you to your nid as soon as possible. You look like one far gone of the—” He broke off suddenly. “Did you say you have a sister who is ill of the wasting?”

But when Raamo tried to answer he found that his voice would not obey him. He stared at Neric helplessly, his lips trembling.