Jango (25 page)

Seeker looked up at last.

"I have a greater duty," he said.

"What can be more urgent than saving the lives of hundreds of innocent people?"

"Saving the All and Only who gives us life."

"The All and Only?" said Sander. "What's that?"

"Our god," said Seeker. "Everyone's god."

"There's a queer thing," said Mr. Kittle. "You're to save your own god? Are you stronger than your own god?"

"The All and Only is the weakest of us all," said Seeker. "We also call him the Lost Child."

"A weak god!" Echo felt anger rise up in her. "What use is a weak god?"

"We live our own lives," replied Seeker.

"If you don't have the power to help us," Echo said, "just say so. If you have the power and won't use it, then you don't deserve our kindness."

Seeker rose.

"I think I should go."

"No. I don't mean it." Echo found herself caught whichever way she turned. "Stay tomorrow, just for one day. If the Orlans come, they'll come tomorrow."

"I've no time to lose. Not even one day."

"Then go!" she cried out in her bitterness. "Go to your baby god and I'll do as the old monster wants and I wish I were dead!"

She turned away and bit her lip to stop the tears rising to her eyes. Her family and the other Glimmeners looked on in silence, awed by her anger and pain.

Seeker made them a bow in the Nomana fashion.

"Forgive me," he said. "You have your duty, and I have mine."

So Seeker slept that night on a bed of leaves after all, and slept fitfully and woke early. He set off at once down the road, unaware that he was being followed by a silent figure in the trees above. He reached the edge of the forest as dawn was breaking, then stopped by the last of the trees and gazed westward.

Ahead, across the plain, its upper surface silvered by the light of the rising sun, lay the land cloud.

It sat like an immense feather bed on the flat land. Its upper surface, hummocked and pillowed and creamy white, was in permanent movement, rising and falling, swelling and stirring, like some vast creature breathing in its sleep. It looked benign, even comfortable, from the safety of the forest. But this was surely not a natural creation.

Echo watched Seeker from her high perch in a tree
above. She understood now that he was going into the land cloud. She saw him leave the forest with confused feelings of anger and admiration. The Glimmeners had seen many singing pilgrims go into the cloud, but no one had ever come out. What was the point of doing something brave if you knew it would kill you?

Then she realized the fingers of her right hand were tugging at the little finger of her left hand. She blushed for shame, even though there was no one to see.

T
HERE WAS A SHARP STING IN THE AIR THAT DAY, AND
the clear white sky above gave warning of a frost. Ice had not yet formed in the wheel ruts of the road, but the stony earth was hard underfoot. The old man who had called himself Jango strode down the track at a swinging pace, stabbing the ground with his stick as he went. When the road reached the high stone wall that ran alongside it, he slowed down, first to a walking pace, then to a shuffle. By the time he reached the crowd in front of the roadhouse, he was moving like the old man he was, and no one paid him any attention.

The crowd had formed round a wagon, on which stood a short sly-looking fellow with one arm round the shoulders of a lanky youth. Jango knew them both. One was a rogue called Ease; the other was the former goatboy Filka.

"My friends!" Ease was crying. "We live in a time of suffering. Many of you have lost your homes to the invaders. Many of you have lost loved ones."

"And food!" cried a voice in the crowd.

"Your hearts ache," Ease went on, throwing an irritated glance at the one who had interrupted him. "You long to see them again. The loved ones you've lost."

"And the dinners we've lost," said the heckler. "They eat everything. They leave us nothing."

"But this is also a time of miracles!"

"It would be a miracle to get something to eat."

"Do you want to hear about miracles or not?" demanded the speaker.

"Miracles! Miracles!" cried the others in the crowd, shouting the heckler down.

"Very well," said Ease. "You see this lad here? You know what he is?"

The spectators looked up at the lanky youth, with his vacant, staring eyes.

"He's a Funny," they cried.

"And what's a Funny?"

"Simple in the head," said one.

"Came out feet first," said another.

Ease nodded.

"A Funny," he said, "is different from you and me. And different can be special. Different can be touched by the gods! Why would the gods choose to touch a poor Funny like this? Because he's simple! In his simplicity he's open to the favor of the gods. Are you open to the favor of the gods?"

His finger pointed accusingly down into the crowd.

"Are you? Or you?"

They seemed unsure.

"No! You are not! You're too clever. Too busy. Too important."

They nodded their heads at that.

"But this poor simple Funny isn't clever or busy or important. So the gods have touched him. And he—yes, this lad here—can do miracles! He's even brought a dead man back to life!"

A gasp from the crowd. One among them, more affected than the rest, cried out.

"Do a miracle for me!"

He forced his way forward to the wagon, panting and shouting, dragging one stiff crippled leg.

"Me! Me!" he cried. "Give me back the strength in my leg! Let me walk again on two good legs and I'll pay you all I have!"

"No money, good sir. All you need bring is an open heart."

"You're my last hope!" cried the cripple, and he wept aloud as he reached one hand upwards. "Let the gods touch me!"

"Stand back, good sir," said Ease. "The Funny will call down the favor of the gods. If the gods are merciful, he'll do what he can for you."

He murmured in Filka's ear, then moved back to give him space. Filka reached out his arms and began to spin. As he spun round and round on the wagon, he uttered a wailing cry.

The people in the crowd watched with interest.

"He's dancing! The Funny's dancing!"

"Hush!" called Ease. "Watch!"

At the height of his dance Filka suddenly stopped dead, rocking and staggering, and very nearly fell off the wagon. But he righted himself and began to wave his arms in a dreamy fashion. He smiled and babbled nonsense.

"Come closer," said Ease to the cripple. "He's ready now. Touch him."

The cripple dragged himself closer, evidently fearful, and reaching up his hand, touched the Funny's leg. No sooner had he made contact than he uttered a sharp cry and fell to the ground. Filka swayed and babbled as if nothing had happened. The crowd gaped.

"Rise, good sir," said the speaker.

The cripple hauled himself to his knees and an expression of astonishment formed on his face. He felt his bad leg. He stood up. He jumped on his bad leg. He sprang into the air. He cried out in joy.

"I'm cured! I can walk!"

The crowd cheered. The cured man pulled coins from his bag and held them up to Ease.

"No, no," said Ease. "No money."

"But you must eat—I'm so grateful—take it!"

So Ease at last accepted the gold coins.

"We shall treasure your gift," he said, "as an offering to the gods."

By now the crowd was in a state of ferment. Everyone was shouting at once, everyone seemed to have an ailment,
everyone wanted to be touched by the Funny. They thronged round the wagon.

"My grippe! Cure my grippe!"

"Touch my eyes! Touch my eyes!"

"My hands! I can't use my hands!"

But before anyone else could be cured, Jango, who had been watching throughout, somehow got himself up onto the wagon. There, reaching out one bony hand, he touched Filka's cheek. Filka dropped his arms at once and came out of his trance. He looked at the old man, and his eyes were no longer blank.

"I'm so sorry, Filka," said Jango. "You've been badly used by this business."

"What do you think you're doing?" exclaimed Ease, pulling the old man away by one arm. "You take your turn."

Jango looked at him.

"I know you," he said. "We met long ago. Just as I know you." This was addressed to the cured cripple on the ground below. "You were partners then, as you are now."

"Lies!" cried Ease. "I never saw him before in my life!"

"Your name is Ease," said Jango. "And yours is Solace."

At this the two exchanged a rapid furtive glance. Ease came up close to Jango and whispered to him.

"Who the devil are you?"

"They call me Jango."

"Well, Mr. Jango, I've never seen you before in my life. But it seems we need to have a private talk."

He jumped down from the wagon and gave his hand to assist the old man down after him. Then he led Jango
away from the crowd. The former cripple followed after them.

"You just walk on down the road, Mr. Jango," hissed Ease, pressing some coins into his hand, "and be glad nothing worse happens to you."

"I'm sorry," said Jango. "I can't let you abuse that poor boy."

"Abuse him? We're like family to him!"

"We look after his money for him," said Solace.

"He's no use for money, Sol," said Ease.

"But we look after it all the same."

"Out of kindness."

"Too much kindness. That's our weakness."

"Soft hearts, Sol. That's our weakness."

"So don't you concern yourself over us, Mr. Jango."

Ease wrapped one arm round the old man. At the same time, he drew a blade with the other hand, then touched the sharp tip to Jango's throat. "Or I shall have to concern myself with you."

Jango sighed.

"Stupidity," he murmured. "How little you see."

With that he gave a small shake of his head, and both men, who had been huddling round him, shot backwards as if punched by an axer, then fell sprawling to the ground.

Jango returned to Filka on the wagon, and while the crowd looked on in bewilderment, he knelt before him.

"Forgive me," he said. "You've suffered more than you deserved."

Filka wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. Then he too
went down on his knees—not to ask forgiveness, but so that he could clasp the old man's hands.

"I got special friends," he said. "Only they went away."

"I know," said Jango. "But I've come now."

"That's good," said Filka.

The crowd began to be angry.

"It's our turn now! We want to be cured, too!"

Jango rose and spoke to them.

"This boy can't cure you. What you saw was a trick to get your money."

"That was no trick," came a woman's shout. "Didn't I see him cure that cripple with my own eyes?"

"They never asked for money," cried another. "Look," said Jango, pointing to where Ease and Solace now stood, rubbing their bruises and conferring in low voices. "They work as a team."

"You don't know that," said the woman in the crowd. "You just want to spoil it for the rest of us."

"He's just envious," said another. "He's an old man. He wants us all as crippled as he is."

"I saw that cripple. He was pulling his leg like a log of wood."

"And he never asked for money! He said we weren't to give him money. The old man's a liar if he says he did."

Jango gave up trying to convince them. He smiled at Filka and nodded at the road ahead.

"Shall we go?" he said.

The old man and the Funny climbed down from the wagon and set off together, leaving an angry and dissatisfied crowd.

"He just wants the Funny for himself," they grumbled.

Ease heard this. He beckoned to Solace to follow him back onto the wagon.

"My friends," he said to the murmuring people, "don't be dismayed because the Funny has left us. The favor of the gods falls on those who are deserving."

He put his arm round Solace's shoulders.

"The cripple has been cured. The gods are with him now."

Solace looked surprised. Ease whispered to him, "Dance."

"Dance?"

Ease reached out his arms in demonstration, copying the way the Funny had danced. Solace understood. He reached out his arms and began to dance.

Jango and Filka walked down the road together, through the bleak winter fields. After a mile or so, the road ran alongside a section of the old stone wall. Jango planted his stick before him with each stride.

"Never seen a stick like that before," said Filka.

"It's for sitting on," said Jango.

He opened out the handle into the small seat for Filka to see. Filka was entranced.

"Can I sit on it?"

"If you like."

So they stopped and Filka sat on the sitting-stick, as proud as a king on a throne.

"We must go on our way," said Jango.

"I don't have a way," said Filka.

"Then you can come on mine."

"All right. I'd like that."

On they went, following the long wall that ran ahead as far as the eye could see. The old man let Filka carry his stick. A flock of seagulls appeared, borne inland by the north wind, and circled in the air above them.

"You know how I'm a Funny," said Filka.

"Yes."

"Are you a Funny, too?"

"I suppose I am," said the old man.

"Do you like being a Funny? Because I don't."

"No, I don't like it so much, either. But, you see, the others need us."

"Do they? For what?"

"It's different for each of us. But we each of us have something important to do."

"Well," said Filka, "I don't know what mine is."

"No, mostly we never know. But we do it all the same."

"Once I had a herd of goats," said Filka. "I had to look after them. Then I had special friends. I had to do what they told me. But that's all gone now."

"Shall I tell you a story?" said the old man.

"All right."

"It's a story about a wall, much like this one. This wall went all the way across the land, from sea to sea. There was a door in the wall, and it was locked. Beside the door was a little house. In the house lived a little man, who kept the key to the door. He kept it in a bag that hung round his neck. His job was to open the door if anyone came by
who wanted to go through to the other side of the wall. And people did come from time to time, and looked at the door, and rattled it to see how solid it was. But they never asked to go through."