The Other Wind (3 page)

After a while he said, “We had great joy.”

“I see that.”

“And my sorrow was in that degree.”

The old man nodded.

“I could bear it,” Alder said. “You know how it is. There was not much reason to be living that I could see, but I could bear it.”

“Yes.”

“But in the winter. Two months after her death. There was a dream came to me. She was in the dream.”

“Tell it.”

“I stood on a hillside. Along the top of the hill and running down the slope was a wall, low, like a boundary wall between sheep pastures. She was standing across the wall from me, below it. It was darker there.”

Sparrowhawk nodded once. His face had gone rock hard.

“She was calling to me. I heard her voice saying my name, and I went to her. I knew she was dead, I knew it in the dream, but I was glad to go. I couldn’t see her clear, and I went to her to see her, to be with her. And she reached out across the wall. It was no higher than my heart. I had thought she might have the child with her, but she did not. She was reaching her hands out to me, and so I reached out to her, and we took each other’s hands.”

“You touched?”

“I wanted to go to her, but I could not cross the wall. My legs would not move. I tried to draw her to me, and she wanted to come, it seemed as if she could, but the wall was there between us. We couldn’t get over it. So she leaned across to me and kissed my mouth and said my name. And she said, ‘Set me free!’

“I thought if I called her by her true name maybe I could free her, bring her across that wall, and I said, ‘Come with me, Mevre!’ But she said, ‘That’s not my name, Hara, that’s not my name any more.’ And she let go my hands, though I tried to hold her. She cried, ‘Set me free, Hara!’ But she was going down into the dark. It was all dark down that hillside below the wall. I called her name and her use-name and all the dear names I had had for her, but she went on away. So then I woke.”

Sparrowhawk gazed long and keenly at his visitor. “You gave me your name, Hara,” he said.

Alder looked a little stunned, and took a couple of long breaths, but he looked up with desolate courage. “Who could I better trust it with?” he said.

Sparrowhawk thanked him gravely. “I will try to deserve your trust,” he said. “Tell me, do you know what that place is—that wall?”

“I did not know it then. Now I know you have crossed it.”

“Yes. I’ve been on that hill. And crossed the wall, by the power and art I used to have. And I’ve gone down to the cities of the dead, and spoken to men I had known living, and sometimes they answered me. But Hara, you are the first man I ever knew or heard of, among all the great mages in the lore of Roke or Paln or the Enlades, who ever touched, who ever kissed his love across that wall.”

Alder sat with his head bowed and his hands clenched.

“Will you tell me: what was her touch like? Were her hands warm? Was she cold air and shadow, or like a living woman? Forgive my questions.”

“I wish I could answer them, my lord. On Roke the Summoner asked the same. But I can’t answer truly. My longing for her was so great, I wished so much—it could be I wished her to be as she was in life. But I don’t know. In dream not all things are clear.”

“In dream, no. But I never heard of any man coming to the wall in dream. It is a place a wizard may seek to come to, if he must, if he’s learned the way and has the power. But without the knowledge and the power, only the dying can—”

And then he broke off, remembering his dream of the night before.

“I took it for a dream,” Alder said. “It troubled me, but I cherished it. It was like a harrow on my heart’s ground to think of it, and yet I held to that pain, held it close to me. I wanted it. I hoped to dream again.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I dreamed again.”

He looked unseeing into the blue gulf of air and ocean west of where they sat. Low and faint across the tranquil sea lay the sunlit hills of Kameber. Behind them the sun was breaking bright over the mountain’s northern shoulder.

“It was nine days after the first dream. I was in that same place, but high up on the hill. I saw the wall below me across the slope. And I ran down the hill, calling out her name, sure of seeing her. There was someone there. But when I came close, I saw it wasn’t Lily. It was a man, and he was stooping at the wall, as if he was repairing it. I said to him, ‘Where is she, where is Lily?’ He didn’t answer or look up. I saw what he was doing. He wasn’t working to mend the wall but to unbuild it, prying with his fingers at a great stone. The stone never moved, and he said, ‘Help me, Hara!’ Then I saw that it was my teacher, Gannet, who named me. He has been dead these five years. He kept prying and straining at the stone with his fingers, and said my name again—‘Help me, set me free.’ And he stood up and reached out to me across the wall, as she had done, and caught my hand. But his hand burned, with fire or with cold, I don’t know, but the touch of it burned me so that I pulled away, and the pain and fear of it woke me from the dream.”

He held his hand out as he spoke, showing a darkness on the back and palm like an old bruise.

“I’ve learned not to let them touch me,” he said in a low voice.

Ged looked at Alder’s mouth. There was a darkening across his lips too.

“Hara, you’ve been in mortal danger,” he said, also softly.

“There is more.”

Forcing his voice against silence, Alder went on with his story.

The next night when he slept again he found himself on that dim hill and saw the wall that dropped down from the hilltop across the slope. He went down towards it, hoping to find his wife there. “I didn’t care if she couldn’t cross it, if I couldn’t, so long as I could see her and talk to her,” he said. But if she was there he never saw her among all the others: for as he came closer to the wall he saw a crowd of shadowy people on the other side, some clear and some dim, some he seemed to know and others he did not know, and all of them reached out their hands to him as he approached and called him by his name: “Hara! Let us come with you! Hara, set us free!”

“It’s a terrible thing to hear one’s true name called by strangers,” Alder said, “and it’s a terrible thing to be called by the dead.”

He tried to turn and climb back up the hill, away from the wall; but his legs had the awful weakness of dream and would not carry him. He fell to his knees to keep himself from being drawn down to the wall, and called out for help, though there was no one to help him; and so he woke in terror.

Since then, every night that he slept deeply, he found himself standing on the hill in the dry grey grass above the wall, and the dead would crowd thick and shadowy below it, pleading and crying to him, calling his name.

“I wake,” he said, “and I’m in my own room. I’m not there, on that hillside. But I know they are. And I have to sleep. I try to wake often, and to sleep in daylight when I can, but I have to sleep at last. And then I am there, and they are there. And I can’t go up the hill. If I move it’s always downhill, towards the wall. Sometimes I can turn my back to them, but then I think I hear Lily among them, crying to me. And I turn to look for her. And they reach out to me.”

He looked down at his hands gripping each other.

“What am I to do?” he said.

Sparrowhawk said nothing.

After a long time Alder said, “The harper I told you of was a good friend to me. After a while he saw there was something amiss, and when I told him that I couldn’t sleep for fear of my dreams of the dead, he urged me and helped me to take ship’s passage to Éa, to speak to a grey wizard there.” He meant a man trained in the School on Roke. “As soon as that wizard heard what my dreams were he said I must go to Roke.”

“What is his name?”

“Beryl. He serves the Prince of Éa, who is Lord of the Isle of Taon.”

The old man nodded.

“He had no help to give me, he said, but his word was as good as gold to the ship’s master. So I went on the water again. That was a long journey, coasting clear round Havnor and down the Inmost Sea. I thought maybe being on the water, far from Taon, always farther, I might leave the dream behind me. The wizard on Éa called that place in my dream
the dry land,
and I thought maybe I’d be going away from it, going on the sea. But every night I was there on the hillside. And more than once in the night, as time went on. Twice, or three times, or every time my eyes close, I’m on the hill, and the wall below me, and the voices calling me. So I’m like a man crazy with the pain of a wound who can find peace only in sleep, but the sleep is my torment, with the pain and anguish of the wretched dead all crowding at the wall, and my fear of them.”

The sailors soon began to shun him, he said, at night because he cried out and woke them with his miserable wakenings, and in daylight because they thought there was a curse on him or a gebbeth in him.

“And no relief for you on Roke?”

“In the Grove,” Alder said, and his face changed entirely when he said the word.

Sparrowhawk’s face had the same look for a moment.

“The Master Patterner took me there, under those trees, and I could sleep. Even at night I could sleep. In daylight, if the sun’s on me—it was like that in the afternoon, yesterday, here—if the warmth of the sun’s on me and the red of the sun shines through my eyelids, I don’t fear to dream. But in the Grove there was no fear at all, and I could love the night again.”

“Tell me how it was when you came to Roke.”

Though hampered by weariness, anguish, and awe, Alder had the silver tongue of his island; and what he left out for fear of going on too long or telling the Archmage what he already knew, his listener could well imagine, remembering when he himself first came to the Isle of the Wise as a boy of fifteen.

When Alder left the ship at the docks at Thwil Town, one of the sailors had drawn the rune of the Closed Door on the top of the gangplank to prevent his ever coming back aboard. Alder noticed it, but he thought the sailor had good cause. He felt himself ill-omened; he felt he bore darkness in him. That made him shyer than he would have been in any case in a strange town. And Thwil was a very strange town.

“The streets lead you awry,” Sparrowhawk said.

“They do that, my lord!—I’m sorry, my tongue will obey my heart, and not you—”

“Never mind. I was used to it once. I can be Lord Goatherd again, if it eases your speech. Go on.”

Misdirected by those he asked, or misunderstanding the directions, Alder wandered about the hilly little labyrinth of Thwil Town with the School always in sight and never able to get to it, until, having reached despair, he came to a plain door in a bare wall on a dull square. After staring at it a while he recognised the wall was the one he had been trying to get to. He knocked, and a man with a quiet face and quiet eyes opened the door.

Alder was ready to say that he had been sent by the wizard Beryl of Éa with a message for the Master Summoner, but he didn’t have a chance to speak. The Doorkeeper gazed at him a moment and said mildly, “You cannot bring them into this house, friend.”

Alder did not ask who it was he could not bring with him. He knew. He had slept scarcely at all the past nights, snatching fragments of sleep and waking in terror, dozing off in the daylight, seeing the dry grass sloping down through the sunlit deck of the ship, the wall of stones across the waves of the sea. And waking, the dream was in him, with him, around him, veiled, and he could hear, always, faintly, through all the noises of wind and sea, the voices that cried his name. He did not know if he was awake now or asleep. He was crazy with pain and fear and weariness.

“Keep them out,” he said, “and let me in, for pity’s sake let me in!”

“Wait here,” the man said, as gently as before. “There’s a bench,” pointing. And he closed the door.

Alder went and sat down on the stone bench. He remembered that, and he remembered some boys of fifteen or so looking curiously at him as they went by and entered that door, but what happened for some while after he could recall only in fragments.

The Doorkeeper came back with a young man with the staff and cloak of a Roke wizard. Then Alder was in a room, which he understood was in a lodging house. There the Master Summoner came and tried to talk with him. But Alder by then was not able to talk. Between sleep and waking, between the sunlit room and the dim grey hill, between the Summoner’s voice speaking to him and the voices calling him across the wall, he could not think and he could not move, in the living world. But in the dim world where the voices called, he thought it would be easy to walk on down those few steps to the wall and let the reaching hands take him and hold him. If he was one of them they would let him be, he thought.

Then, as he remembered, the sunlit room was altogether gone, and he was on the grey hill. But with him stood the Summoner of Roke: a big, broad, dark-skinned man, with a great staff of yew wood that shimmered in the dim place.

The voices had ceased calling. The people, the crowding figures at the wall, were gone. He could hear a distant rustle and a kind of sobbing as they went down into the darkness, went away.

The Summoner stepped to the wall and put his hands on it.

The stones had been loosened here and there. A few had fallen and lay on the dry grass. Alder felt that he should pick them up and replace them, mend the wall, but he did not.

The Summoner turned to him and asked, “Who brought you here?”

“My wife, Mevre.”

“Summon her here.”

Alder stood dumb. At last he opened his mouth, but it was not his wife’s true name that he spoke but her use-name, the name he had called her in life. He said it aloud, “Lilly . . .” The sound of it was not like a white flower, but like a pebble dropping on dust.

No sound. Stars shone small and steady in the black sky. Alder had never looked up at the sky in this place before. He did not recognise the stars.

“Mevre!” said the Summoner, and in his deep voice spoke some words in the Old Speech.

Alder felt the breath go out of him and could barely stand. But nothing stirred on the long slope that led down to formless dark.