The Sight (46 page)

‘Peace,’ snarled the wolf, beginning to back away fearfully.  ‘This you may not know.  This the living can never know.’

The spectral wolves around him had also begun to retreat.

‘But what are you?’ said Larka.

‘I have told you.  We are the shadows of the dead, the dead you have seen.  Like your memories.’

‘But if you are no more than memories you cannot help me.’

‘No more?’ said the wolf looking at her strangely.  ‘Have you learnt nothing on your journey, Larka? We may help you to know the world of the living, but there your questions must cease.’

‘Very well,’ said Larka.  ‘The Pathways of Death.  May I seal them again? May I call those that have crossed into our world back into the realm of shadows?’

The spectral wolf looked grave.

‘The pathways are open and, with the Searchers, the true power of the Sight has entered your world.  To touch minds and control wills.  Morgra has used it to send our kind out to do her bidding already.  But only once the altar has tasted blood can they be commanded again.  Then the pathways can be sealed.’

Larka shivered.

‘Then tell me.  I have had visions.  But the things I see – are they real? Can I really see the future? The Stone Chimneys?’

‘That will come about, Larka,’ growled the wolf sadly.

‘But not in your lifetime.’

‘And the bridge and the ruins that I saw.  Do they exist?’

‘Oh yes.  And in your world too.  It is the ancient place of pilgrimage.  Harja.  Where the altar lies.  You will see it again very soon.’

‘So it is Harja,’ said Larka.  ‘Father says it lies very close, in the higher mountains.  Guarded by a stone face.’

‘That is true.  But there are two ways in.  The second is an entrance lost long ago.  To the east of the face.  A tunnel by a stream that leads right through the mountain.  At Harja, the Vision will come if the child is placed on the altar, but only at the moment the moon reaches its zenith.  For the legend, Larka, like Tor, is itself a thing of moonlight.’

Larka shivered, for again she was remembering her vision on the bridge and the giant moon that had illuminated it.  That had illuminated her own death.

‘And is it really the gateway to heaven?’

‘Heaven,’ muttered the wolf strangely, and he seemed not to understand.

‘But am I to die there?’ Larka whispered, dropping her head.

‘If you have seen it,’ answered the spectre coldly, ‘it is almost certain.’

‘Almost?’

Larka’s head came up.  The spectre hesitated.  He was staring at the meat.

‘These are dark matters, Larka.  For most a future is made by the things that have gone before.  But for you...  You alone have visited us.  You have commanded us in the Red Meadow.  You have made us real again.  Perhaps that itself will change what is to come.’

‘Then there is hope?’

The wolf looked at her strangely.

‘For the living there is always hope.  Must be hope, Larka.  But remember.  The path is narrow and the further you journey along it the narrower it may become.’

Larka nodded, and the spectre came further forward.  His muzzle was straining towards the meat.

‘There is more I would ask.  I must face Morgra.  But there is one with her.  One I fear.  I see him only as a great darkness, a terrible evil.  Wolfbane.  I know he is waiting.’

‘Wolfbane is waiting,’ said the wolf coldly.  ‘And you should fear him above all else.  For he is more dangerous to you than any other.  But to end it you must face him, and you must face him alone.  None can aid you there.’

Larka growled.

‘One more thing,’ she said, ‘tell me of Man.’ The spectre backed away a little.

‘Does Man have a third eye, an eye that can see more than the Lera?’

The wolf nodded.

‘But his power.  Where does it come from?’

‘The power of Man, beyond his hands and his machines,’ whispered the wolf gravely, ‘is the power of memory and of knowledge, and the power of imagination.’

Larka cocked her head in surprise.

‘To remember,’ she muttered, ‘to remember those we love and lose.  To remember the horror?’

‘No, not just the memory of his life, but of all human lives that have been,’ growled the wolf, ‘and the memory that lies sleeping in all things.  Not simply in Man’s memories but in the very force that makes up his being.  For there lie the greatest secrets of the past, and so of the future too.  Not just the past that seems to end in the Field of the Dead.  But the ancient past!’

As Larka looked at the Field of the Dead before her she suddenly felt a great anguish.

‘You are called the Searchers...’ Larka hesitated.  ‘But what is it you really seek?’

In the Red Meadow the spectral wolves lifted their heads as one.

‘Justice,’ they moaned, and their voices shook the poppies.  ‘Justice and truth.’

‘Very well,’ Larka whispered to the rebel spectre, ‘you have earned your reward.  You may eat.’

The other spectres looked jealously at the wolf, but as he stepped forward he stopped.

‘Listen to me,’ he growled suddenly, and as he did so a great longing entered his voice.  ‘Wolfbane.  You said that you see him as a darkness.  An evil.  Very well.  He believes he knows of the black side of the Sight.’

Larka’s lips curled upwards.

‘But remember the nature of your world, Larka.  Where there is colour and form, where there is warmth as well as cold.  Remember this and, before you fight him, know that without night there is no day, without lies, no truth, without despair, no hope.  Beware above all of hate, but call to its opposite too.  For all things have an opposite and, if you choose it, with will and care, you may turn one thing into its reflection.’

Larka listened to the spectre but she did not understand what he was telling her.

‘Now,’ said the spectre, ‘stand back.  For as I eat I must not touch you.’

‘Must not?’ said Larka quizzically.  ‘But on the other side.  On the other side I was told that you might try to keep me here.’

‘Keep you here?’ said the spectre almost sadly.  ‘No.  We would not do that, Larka, unless we touched you.  For if we did that we would remember our lives and, feeling your warmth, long to have you with us for ever.’

A terrible pity entered Larka.

‘We could not help ourselves, as you cannot help yourself when you need to eat.  You too, touching us, would long to be more than you are now, long to pass beyond the simple dualities of sun and moon, and step after us.  To journey beyond the Field of the Dead and see what, if anything, lies on the other side.’

As he spoke, Larka did indeed feel that great longing, but still she stepped back from him.  He dropped his head and, as soon as he touched the meat Larka shivered, for a fearful moan went up among the wolves in the meadow.

As the wolf ate, his pale fur quivered and colour seemed to flow back into his veins.  His eyes glinted yellow and his tail was tinged with red.  But as Larka watched him, her heart pounded, for she had suddenly seen a she-wolf standing behind him.  She could hardly believe her eyes.

‘Brassa, is that really you?’

Larka’s heart was almost breaking.  The feeding spectre lifted his head immediately.  The feast had stained his mouth and his voice seemed stronger, more real.

‘No,’ he moaned, ‘you must not name us, you must never name us.’

It was too late.  Larka was already calling to her old nurse.

‘Brassa,’ she cried.  ‘It is you, Brassa.’

The she-wolf heard her and, as the spectre looked on, a light woke in her glassy eyes.  She leapt forward and Larka, forgetting all that had just been told her, sprang forward too.  In an instant their muzzles had met in greeting.  They had touched.

Larka saw a flash like lightning and the whole field was suffused with light and colour.  The still air was warmed by a breeze and the grass bloomed green around the poppies.  The wolves were no longer spectres, the trees no longer grey and lifeless.  It was as though Larka had suddenly woken, only the colour around her was ten times more brilliant and beautiful than anything she had known in life.

 ‘No!’ cried Tsarr in the hollow.  Larka had suddenly dropped her head.  Her breathing had grown shallow and pained as her muzzle lay next to the meat.

‘Call to her,’ cried Tsarr frantically, turning to Huttser and Palla, ‘call to her quickly.  Command her.’

Huttser looked desperately at Palla.

In the trees beyond they did not know that another wolf was racing towards them, running with all his might, as Skart swooped through the summer air.  Kar’s heart was fit to burst as he ran and his coat was drenched with sweat.

‘Hurry, Kar,’ screeched Skart from the skies.  ‘Hurry!’ They did not see a shape stealing through the forests towards the mountains above them.  The shape of a she-wolf and a child on her back.

 ‘Welcome, Larka,’ said Brassa softly in the red meadow, ‘it is good to see you again.  You have grown up.  But you still have so much to learn, so much to see.  Come with us.’

Even as she spoke Larka gasped.  Two wolves were coming towards her, side by side.

‘Khaz,’ she whispered, ‘Kipcha.’

As the pair drew nearer, their tails shaking, they looked as healthy as Larka had remembered them in life.  Larka’s heart surged.  She was suddenly a cub again.  It was like coming home.  Then, as they greeted her, she saw another wolf in the distance.  It was Bran and he was wagging his tail too.  Behind Bran came Skop.

‘Come, dear Larka,’ said Bran, ‘there is nothing to fear now.’

‘Is this true?’ whispered Larka dreamily.  ‘Is this real?’

‘We cannot lie to you,’ answered Brassa.  ‘The eyes cannot lie.’

‘And is ... is he here too?’

‘Come and see, Larka.’

Like a sleep-walker Larka nodded and, without another word, Brassa and the others turned to lead her away through the poppies.

‘Larka, Larka.’

Suddenly Larka paused.  Those voices, disembodied on the breeze, were calling her back.

‘My parents,’ she said wearily as she listened.  ‘They are calling to me.’

‘No matter, my dear,’ whispered Brassa.  ‘No matter.’

‘Larka, come back.’

‘Does one such as you obey their parents?’ said Brassa as they listened to the distant, feeble voices.  ‘Whatever they ask of you?’

‘But they need me.’

‘Yes, and they love you too.  But such things are for their world.  Here we are beyond love or hate.  Beyond fear and betrayal.  Now you have a greater journey.  Let us go.’

Larka turned to follow Brassa, but again the call came.

‘But I canleftgt,’ said Larka.  ‘To deny them is...  to deny life.’

‘What holds you, Larka?’ whispered Brassa.  ‘Their love? Their need? That is not strong enough to call back one such as you.  Love is a shadowy thing.  Like hate.  They are just energies, Larka, and part of the vines that bind us to the world.  That ensnare us.’

Larka remembered her parents’ snarling voices the night Fell died on the ice.

‘We all must leave our parents, Larka, indeed one sun nature would have forced them to drive you out and, for one who seeks the truth, you must go far beyond.  They are your parents, yes.  But no more.  What would you have done if they had died that night when my kind attacked? Then you would have been alone, as we are all alone.  A Searcher must break such ties for ever.’

‘For ever?’ Larka trembled.

Tsarr was shaking violently.  Larka lay slumped on her side.

‘Help her,’ he cried desperately.

Huttser and Palla stood looking down stupidly at their daughter.

‘It’s no good.  We are lost.  Larka has gone.’

Suddenly a shape flickered on the edges of their vision.  As Kar crested the slope, some of the rebel guards sprang up growling, but Kar sprang past them.  He gasped as he saw Larka lying there at Huttser and Palla’s feet.  Kar began to whimper pitifully as he leapt towards them.

‘Kar,’ cried Palla in amazement, but Kar had no time for the Drappa and Dragga.  He was staring down in horror at Larka.  She had stopped breathing altogether.

‘No,’ Kar sobbed bitterly.  ‘Larka.  You’re dead.’

Larka felt a wonderful sense of peace come upon her as she drifted through the poppies.  Where before the air had been cold and still, now it was filled with a sweet and drowsy odour that made her limbs seem to float.  A terrible weight was lifting from her, and the thought of Morgra and Wolfbane was receding into the shadows.

She felt a sense of expectation and, as the flowers quivered around her, her heart grew calmer and calmer.  Still she could hear her parents calling, pleading with her to come back, but guilt had dropped away and, though she loved them, she knew she was far beyond Huttser and Palla, that they could never reach her now.

The spectral wolves were approaching the trees at the edge of the meadow, and as they went on Larka gasped.  Between the trunks Larka saw brilliant lights, like eyes of sparking fire dancing between the bows.

‘Come,’ smiled Brassa gently.  ‘It is time.’

‘Please, Larka.’

Her parents’ voices were like a dream.  But even as she hesitated Larka felt her senses reel.  There, between the trees, caught in the fire play of dark and light, flickering among the brilliant glow stood a young black wolf.  He looked exactly the same as she had known him in life.

‘Fell,’ cried Larka, her head spinning, ‘dear Fell.’

‘Come,’ whispered Brassa beside her.

Larka paused and took another look around the beautiful meadow.  It had lost all its terror for her.  She turned and stepped towards Fell and the trees.  But as she did so the she-wolf stopped dead in her tracks.

‘Larka.’

Larka lifted her ears.  That voice.  It wasn’t her parents.  It was a voice she had wanted to hear for so long and now it tugged violently at her heart.

‘No,’ gasped Larka.  ‘It’s him.  I cannot.’

Larka felt an agony of doubt and then an almost physical pain.  To tear herself away from Fell and the lights was almost too much to bear, but to turn her back on that call was impossible.  Memory began to flood into Larka’s mind.

 ‘Again,’ said Huttser as they stood in the hollow.  ‘Call to her again.’

Palla looked fearfully at Kar.  His sudden appearance had astounded her, but thrilled her heart.  Kar understood nothing of what was happening, but he could see their desperation, and his heart began to beat violently as he dropped his head and licked Larka’s muzzle.