Shardik (103 page)

‘But as to your journey to
Bekla
,’ said the governor, coming back to reality with something of
a
bump, ‘the road between here and
Kabin’s not finished yet, you know. Twenty miles of it’s sound enough, but the other twenty’s still only a muddy track.’

‘We shall manage it, don’t worry. But I’d like to stay for your festival first - Shara’s Day, I believe you call it? Your wife was speaking of it. She told
me
about the burning raft - for Lord Shardik, isn’t it? Also, I think I should benefit by meeting your friend, the wise woman - I’ve not been well during the journey, and your wife says she’s a great healer.’

‘The Tuginda?’

‘I don’t think I heard her
-
her name. Or is it a titl
e?’ ‘It’s both, in her case.’

‘Will she come by the half-finished road you were speaking of?’

‘No, by water. We’re lucky in this-town to have the river as a highway from the north. Much of the province is still half-wild, though not as wild
as it was. We’re making new settleme
nts here and there, although we never risk children in the remoter parts. But there’s a child village on the road to Kabin: you’ll pass through it on your way to Bekla. It’s not very big yet - ten old soldiers and their wives are looking after about a hundred children - but we mean to make it bigger as soon as
the
land’s in any state to support more. It’s in a safe place, you see.’

‘I’m puzzled by the children,’ said Siristrou, ‘what
little
I’ve seen of
them
. Your town seems full of children - I saw them working at the landing-stage and on your new warehouses. Two-thirds of the inhabitants seem to be children.’

‘Two-thirds - that’s about right.’

‘They’re not all the children of people here, then?’

‘Oh, no one’s told you about the children?’ said the governor. ‘No, of course, there’s hardly been time. They come from many dif
ferent places - Bekla, Ikat, The
ttit, Dari, Ortelga - there are even a few from Terekenalt. They’re all children who’ve lost parents or families for one reason or another. A lot of them have simply been deserted, I’m afraid. They’re not compelled to come here, although for many it’s better than destitution, I suppose. It’s still a hard life, but at least they can feel that we need them and value them. That in itself helps them a great deal.*

‘Who sends
them
?’

‘Well, I’m in touch with all manner of people - people who worked for me and used to send me news a
nd so on, in the days when I - e
r - lived in Bekla: and the Ban of Sarkid has helped us a great deal.’

Siristrou could not help feeling a certain distaste. Appar
ently
this young governor, in his enth
usiasm for trade, was developing his province and building up
Zeray
as
a
port through the labour of destitute children.

‘How long are they compelled to remain?’ he asked.

“They’re not compelled. They’re free to go if they want to, but most of them have nowhere to go.’

‘Then you wouldn’t say they were slaves?’

“They’re slaves when they come here - slaves of neglect, of desertion, sometimes of actual cruelty. We try to free them, but often it’s anything but easy.’

Siristrou began to sec a connection between
this
and certain things which the young woman had said to him in their earlier conversation.

‘Has it something to do with Lord Shardik?’

‘What have you heard, then, about Lord Shardik?’ asked
the
governor with an air of surprise.

‘Your wife spoke of him, and about
the
festival too. Besides, the ferrymen on the raft this morning had a chant - “Shardik gave his life for the children.” I should be interested to hear a
little
more, if you would care to tell me, about the cult of Shardik. I have an interest in such matters and in my own country I have been a - well,
a
teacher, I th
ink you might say.’

The governor, who was gazing into his silver cup and swirling the wine in it, looked up and grinned.

‘That’s more than I am, or ever shall be. I’m not particularly handy with words, though fortunately I don’t need them to serve Lord Shardik. The teaching, as you call it, is simply that there isn’t to be a deserted or unhappy child in the world. In the end, that’s the world’s only security: children are the future, you see. If
there
were no unhappy children, then the future would be secure.’

He spoke with a kind of unassuming assurance, as a mountain-guide might speak to travellers of passes and peaks which, for all their lonely wildness, he knows well. Siristrou had not understood all that he said and, finding it difficult to formulate questions in the other’s language, fell back on the repetition of words which he had heard him speak.

‘You said slaves of neglect and desertion? What does that mean?’

The governor rose, paced slowly across to the window and stood looking out towards the harbour. His next word
s came hesitantl
y, and Siristrou realized with some surprise that appar
ently
he had seldom or never had occasion to try to express himself on
this
subject before.

‘Children - they’re born of mutual pleasure and joy - or they ought to be. And God means them to grow up - well, watertight, like a sound canoe; fit to work and play, buy and sell, laugh and cry.

Slavery - real slavery’s being robbed of any chance of becoming complete. The unwanted, the deprived and deserted - they’re slaves all right - even if they don’t know it themselves.’

Siristrou felt no wish to become too much involved. To show a polite interest in foreign beliefs and customs was one thing; to become a target for the fervour of an uncultivated man was another.

‘Well, well - perhaps there are some deserted children who don’t mind too much.’

‘Which one of them told you mat?’ asked the governor, with so droll a simulation of genuine interest that Siristrou could not help laughing. However, he was wondering, now, how best to bring this part of their conversation to an end. He had himself begun it by asking for information, and it would not be civil simply to change the subject. The better way would be first to move on to some other aspect of the matter and thence slide to less tricky ground. Diplomacy was largely a matter of not upsetting people.

‘Shardik - he was a
bear,
you say?’

‘Lord Shardik was a bear.’

‘And he was - er - coming from God? I’m afraid I don’t know the word.’ ‘Divine?’

‘Ah, yes. Thank you.’

‘He was the Power of God, but he was an actual bear.*

‘This was long ago?’

‘No -
I
myself was present when he died.’

‘You
?’

The governor said no more and after a few moments Siristrou, now genuinely interested, hazarded, ‘A
bear -
and yet you speak of his teaching. How did he teach ?’

‘He made plain to us, by his sacred death, the truth we had never understood.’

Siristrou, mildly irritated, refrained from shrugging his shoulders, but could not resist asking,
though
in a tone of careful sincerity and self-depreciation,

‘Wouldn’t it be possible for some foolish person to try to argue - of course it would be foolish, but perhaps it might be said -
that
what took place was all a matter of chance and accident - that the bear was not sent by God - ?’

He broke off, somewhat dismayed. Certainly he had sai
d more th
an he need. He really must be more careful.

The governor was silent for so long that he feared he must have given offence. To have done so would be a nuisance and he would have to set to work to repair the damage. He was just about to
speak again when the governor looked up, half-s
m
il
i
ng, like one who knows his mind but must needs laugh at his own difficulty in expressing it. At length he said, ‘Those beasts of yours that you spoke of - the ones we’re going to buy from you - you sit on their backs
and they carry you swiftl
y -‘ ‘The horses. Yes?’

‘They must be intelligent - cleverer than oxen, I suppose?’

‘It’s hard to say - perhaps a little more intelligent Why?’

‘If music were played in their hearing and in ours, I suppose their ears would catch all the actual sounds that yours and mine would catch. Yet for all that it’s little they’d understand. You and I might weep; they wouldn’t The truth - those who hear it are in no doubt Yet there are always others who know for a fact that nothing out of the ordinary took place.’

He stooped and threw a log on the fire. The afternoon light was beginning to fade. The wind had dropped and through the window Siristrou could glimpse that the river was now smooth inshore. Perhaps if tomorrow’s crossing were to take place in the early morning it might be less hair-raising.

‘I’ve wandered very far,’ said the governor after a
little
. ‘I’ve seen the world blasphemed and ruined. But I’ve no time nowadays to dwell on that The children, you see - they need our time. Once I used to pray, “Accept my life, Lord Shardik”; but that prayer’s been answered. He has accepted it*

At this, Siristrou felt that at last he was on familiar ground. To remove the burden of guilt was in his experience the function of most, if not of all, religions.

‘ You feel
that Shardik takes away - er - that he forgives you ?’

‘Well, I don’t know about that’ answered the governor. ‘But once you know what you have to do, forgiveness matters much less - the work’s too important God knows I’ve done much wrong, but it’s all past now.’

He broke off at a sound of movement near the door of the darkening room. Ankray had entered and was waiting to speak. The governor called him over.

‘There’s some of the children waiting to see you, sir,’ said
the
man. ‘One or two of
them
new ones that come in yesterday - Kavass brought them up here. And that young fellow down at the landing-stage, that Shouter-‘

‘Kominion?’

‘Well, there’s some calls him that’ conceded Ankray. ‘Now the Baron, he wouldn’t have -‘

‘Anyway, what does he want?’

‘Says he wants some orders for tomorrow, sir.’

‘All right, I’ll come and see him, and the rest of them too.’

As the governor turned towards the door, a
little
boy, aged perhaps six, came wandering uncertainly through it, looked round and came to a halt, staring gravely up at him. Siristrou watched in some amusement.

‘Hullo,’ said the governor, returning the child’s gaze. ‘What are you after?’

‘I’m looking for the governor-man. The people outside said -‘

‘Well, I’m the governor-man, and you can come with me if you like.’ He swung the child up in his arms just as
Melathys
came back into the room. She shook her head, smiling.

‘Haven’t you any dignity, my dearest
Kelderek
Play-with-the-Children? What will the ambassador think?’

‘He’ll think I’m one of those swift anim
als he’s going to sell us. Look!
‘ And he ran out of the room with the child on his shoulders.

‘You’ll dine with us, won’t you?’ said Melathys, turning to Siristrou. ‘It’ll be about an hour, and there’s no need to leave us. How can we entertain you
until
then?’

‘Why, madam, please don’t trouble,’ answered Siristrou, happy to find himself once more in the company of this charming girl, whom privately he considered rather too good for her husband, however keen on trade he might be. ‘I have a letter to finish to the king of Zakalon. Now that we have really reached your country at last, I mean to send a messenger tomorrow, with an account of our arrival and of all that has befallen. It will be entirely convenient to me to occupy the time until dinner in finishing it. Our king will be anxious for news, you understand.’ He s
miled. ‘I can sit anywhere you l
ike and be in nobody’s way.’

She looked surprised.

‘You’re actually going to
write
the letter? You yourself?’ ‘Well - yes, madam - if I may.’