The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 581
The remembered scene was bright and beautiful and barely eight hours old. Between the afternoon and evening briefings Ciaran had taken him up to the observation blister atop the cloud-piercing central tower of Tara, although on that occasion the sky was clear.
He had gazed downward into the rolling acres of the palace parklands, tracing the outlines of the ramparts and ditches that had fortified the Royal Hill in bygone times. He had looked east and south across Atha Cliath, whose streets and buildings were given a more-than-three-dimensional clarity by the bright, orange light of the westering sun, to the dark blue sea; south and southwest over the provinces of Leinster and Munster; westward across the great central plain and Connaught; and north to the rounded, dark-blue mountains of the old Kingdom of Mourne in Ulster. He had been looking for a very long time when Ciaran broke the silence.
"There is much history to be remembered here," he said.
"You may not see me again, Ciaran," Nolan said quietly, "until we meet on the New World."
The other hesitated, then said, "But you will see me before then?"
"Oh, yes," said Nolan.
"And Ulechitzl?" Ciaran asked quietly. "I am concerned for her. She is not fitted for an enterprise such as this, Healer, and has need of a guardian."
"Yes," Nolan repeated, and smiled, although there was no hint of laughter in his voice as he went on, "both of you can rest easy. Whether you are cold or warm, asleep or newly awakened and confused, I will watch over you."
"Then, I shall rest easy, Healer," said Ciaran.
The Ionadacht's hands had come up and he had clasped Nolan's wrist and shoulder firmly, as he would at the parting of a close member of the family. And even now a shiver had run along his spine with the realization that he had not been speaking a few words of professional reassurance to a worried colonist, but had instead bound himself, at least in the Ionadacht's mind, to a most solemn and immutable promise.
Chapter Four
AS THEIR aircraft outstripped the rising sun and bored deeper into the western night, Nolan's memory of that final few minutes with Ciaran would not leave him. It remained clear in every word and tone, sharp in every movement and subtle play of expression, and more inexplicable with every moment that passed. For the Ionadacht was not the type of person to be frightened by the unknown, by the threat of some imaginary space monster or any other phantasm that was conjured up by his own mind. If there was some aspect of the flight of the Aisling Gheal that seriously worried him—frightened was not a word one associated with the onetime Captain of the Imperial Guards—it was most assuredly not composed of insubstantial imaginings.
Nolan muttered to himself in self-annoyance, and wondered, not for the first time, if the insubstantial imaginings were exclusively his own.
"Talking to yourself," said a well-remembered voice, "is a habit which you must assiduously cultivate, since there will be many times when you will be the only person able to hear you. But then, as now, you should make it a practice to speak in a clear voice so that others besides myself, who happens to be blessed with unusually acute hearing, are able to benefit from what you say."
The monsignor, who had been moving along the narrow aisle toward the flight deck, smiled gently at the officer sitting beside Nolan, and the man rose silently and gave O'Riordan his seat.
"If something is troubling you," said the monsignor quietly, when he was settled into place and the safety belt extended to accommodate his portly form, "I am always ready to help you."
"Thank you, no, sir," Nolan said. "It is a minor matter, neither urgent nor significant, and I apologize for any irritation suffered by those around me. I will be silent for the remainder of the trip."
"You will not be silent," said O'Riordan, smiling again, "because I came forward expressly to see you and request otherwise. It seems that I am one of the few ship's officers who has not heard you, ah, perform, and I am anxious to remedy this omission as well as to assess your qualities as a teacher. My next two hours are at your disposal, my son. To begin with, perhaps you have a favorite lecture or story, or an historical incident which you find of particular interest?"
"I wasn't expecting ..." Nolan began, and fell silent. His face felt so hot that it must be elevating the temperature of the entire cabin.
"Hesitancy and shyness," O'Riordan said quietly, "are not desirable qualities, in a teacher. The choice of subject will not always be yours."
Nolan took a deep breath, then said, "There is the War of the Red Brothers, or the coming of the first Hero to Tara or ... or could I relate the Story of Brendan?"
"Since this is your first visit to the Westland, the choice does not surprise me," said O'Riordan, smiling. "May the Holy Spirit guide your tongue in the path of truth."
Nolan closed his eyes, the better to concentrate as well as to avoid the distraction of having to look at the priest's face, and began to speak.
"Under the command and spiritual guidance of Brendan the Navigator," he began, "the Sea Dragon, his flagship, accompanied by the sailing vessels White Heron and Sinead, the expedition left Atha Cliath on a course northward past the Kingdom of Man toward—"
"The date," O'Riordan said gently.
Nolan kept his eyes closed and a tight rein on his temper. Throughout the Empire and beyond, there was not an educated child above the age of three or an adult who did not know that particular date, which rivaled—in popularity, general celebration, and excessive gluttony, if not in true importance—the day of Christ's Mass. The omission had not been due to a lapse in memory but an unwillingness to include unnecessary information, and the monsignor must know that as well as did Nolan himself.
He gave the date, time, and relevant tidal information, and went on, "Two days out they encountered very bad weather, a sudden and unseasonable northwesterly gale which forced him to take refuge in the Lough of Belfast ..."
Awkwardly at first but with growing confidence and feeling, Nolan went on to describe the pictures that research and imagination were combining to project onto the blank screen that was his closed eyelids—the words that accompanied them had, of necessity, to be his own. But to Nolan's mind, Brendan, the gifted visionary but essentially simple monk known variously as the Navigator, the Traitor, the Heretic, and ultimately the Exile, was arguably the most important, and certainly Nolan's own favorite, historical figure.
While he spoke Nolan tried hard to modulate his voice, to let it rise and fall as the incidents warranted it, and to make of the story what a thespian friend had once called a song without music. He did not try to conceal his enthusiasm. And it seemed to be going well, because the monsignor did not interrupt again, and from the officers in the seats behind and in front of him, and from across the central aisle, there was a silence which he hoped was attentive.
The interruption, when it came, took the form of an apologetic cough.
Nolan opened his eyes to see the officer who was seated across the aisle from him raise a hand and point forward to where, now that he had stopped talking, he could hear the sounds of the approaching meal trolley. The man said quietly, "Healer, I think this is the proper moment to break off, so that we can digest food as well as your history lesson."
The reason for his softness of voice, Nolan saw, was the slumped figure of the monsignor beside him. O'Riordan's hands lay palms upward on his crimson-garbed ample lap, his chin rested on his chest just above the pectoral cross, and his eyes were closed.
"Yes," Nolan agreed softly, and forced his lips to smile. "How many others have I sent to sleep?"
The monsignor opened one eye and smiled without raising his head. "I was resting, not sleeping," he said, "and I am sorry if my seeming unconsciousness was mistaken for an implied criticism."
Before Nolan could reply, O'Riordan went on. "My critical response so far is that you go more deeply than is necessary into the feelings of your characters—feelings which no historian however learned may know with accuracy—and are therefore guilty of fictionalizing the incidents to this extent. Our libraries are full of weighty tomes which purport to examine the character and motivations of Brendan. He is long dead, God rest his soul, and the nuances of his character are of no importance compared with his far-reaching effect on subsequent history. Your lessons should be aimed at children, and at non-Hibernian adults with little or no appreciation of the subtleties of—"
"But I thought that a fuller understanding of the characters concerned would increase the interest of—" began Nolan, and broke off as O'Riordan raised his head to look at him.
"Brendan was a truly great and humble man who might have been a saint," the monsignor went on in a voice that made Nolan feel uncomfortable without knowing why. "But a man can be too thoughtful, too humble, and too liberal. He can respect the rights and beliefs of others so much that he forgets that he has any of his own. That kind of thinking is dangerous and must be avoided, because it can make heretics of us all."
Nolan would have liked to argue that point, but the arrival of the food trays left only enough time for O'Riordan to have the last word.
"Try for a little more action and less introspection," the monsignor said, and smiled suddenly. "Having said that, I am reminded of the old-time bards, who were frequently required to sing or otherwise perform for their suppers. After due consideration, my son, I would say that you may enjoy yours with a clear conscience."
Pleased at the compliment, Nolan hurried through his meal and waited impatiently for the trays to be cleared so that he could resume.
This time he did not close his eyes, and neither did the monsignor, as he related the well-documented actions of the principal characters rather than the probable thinking behind those actions. It was a story of high adventure and dauntless, but never blind, courage which covered the initial abduction of Brendan, the so-called conversion of the Redmen chiefs, the last of the intertribal wars, the commercial interdiction of all non-Hibernian trading vessels, and Brendan's climactic act of disobedience to both his High-King and the Holy See.
By the time Nolan reached the great and stirring and, many still thought, tragic conclusion with the simple and stubborn and by then incredibly aged monk and Paramount Chief no longer able to enjoy the rewards that were so justly his, the aircraft was nose-up and subsonic on its final approach to Shining Sea airport.
They were met outside the aircraft with the news that their baggage would be taken directly to the world-renowned guest longhouse, the Algonquin Hibernia, where they would be accommodated during their stay on the Island, and escorted to a large, deeply carpeted lounge where their guides awaited them.
Unless she happened to be a close blood relation, it was still considered an insult by the conservative-minded Westlanders for a visitor to be met by a female. The guides were men, therefore, and dressed in the dark, close-fitting leggings, fringed matching tunics, and soft, beaded boots that aspiring Brendan's Island executives were wearing this season. There was a guide assigned to every five or six visitors, and the one who approached Nolan to stumble through the ritual greeting was young, very tall, and very, very nervous. The nervousness was possibly due to the fact that his Gaelic was even worse than Nolan's own.
"And I am happy to greet Wanachtee, my Redman brother," Nolan responded. He smiled reassuringly and added, "It is especially pleasant to be welcomed by another person of average height. I have a theory, supported by much observational evidence, that the majority of the human race are dwarves."
The Redman looked confused for a moment, then he relaxed and laughed. "You speak truth, Healer. There is also evidence that the smallest of stature often hold the greatest authority, and one of these ..." His eyes looked briefly to one side. "... is probably wondering why the most recent member of the company tribe is laughing and at ease before an officer of the starship, instead of doing what he is supposed to be doing."
"Which is what?" asked Nolan.
From the inner pocket of his beautifully crafted jacket Wanachtee produced a handful of decorated fabric headbands. When he replied, the Redman raised his voice so as to include the officers standing close to Nolan.
"We would be honored if you would wear these during your stay with us," he said, in a respectful tone that still managed to convey the message that his people would be most gravely insulted if they were not worn. "The fitting is adjustable, and there is a small opening which allows the ship insignia to be seen when you wear them with your uniform berets. They should be worn at all times in public, whether you are in or out of uniform, and great care must be taken not to lose them."
One of the officers beside Nolan, a non-ecclesiastic Middle European called Brenner, was examining the delicate embroidery on the band. He said, "And what would happen to me if I did lose it?"
Politely the Redman disregarded the question, but answered it with a further explanation. "The fact that you are officers of the starship gives you the status of warrior and technical or administrative sub-chief, which is the highest level attainable by any person who is not a full-blooded Redman. A wearer of the band is accorded much respect and has access to many places and people of importance, and if his band should find its way into the wrong hands ..."
He broke off to look around at the many uniformed attendants who were constantly coming and going all around them, then went on apologetically. "We have a large immigrant population here, lower-class paleskins for the most part. The majority of them are hard-working, honest people who respect the law and the teachings of their various gods. But there is a small criminal element among them who would willingly kill you to gain possession of the symbol of a chief."
Brenner was looking suitably chastened as they were ushered out of the lounge and into their vehicle. But Nolan was also looking at their guide's band, which was a narrower headpiece, in quieter but more intricately worked colors and with a single, short feather stitched into the pattern. None of the other guides' headbands that he could see included this inconspicuous decoration, so it was possible that in spite of his earlier shyness and pretension to subordinate rank, this young man belonged to one of the noble families.
Their vehicle was one of a convoy that raced along the wide, brightly lit streets, their path cleared of pedestrian and wheeled traffic by an escort of motorized peacekeepers in vehicles that wailed like demented banshees. The pavements were thronged by people whose skin coloration and costumes rivaled those seen in the Imperial City, but not once did he see a headband being worn by anyone on foot.
Since Brendan's time the longhouses of the Algonquin had grown much longer and very much higher. So tall were the buildings in the commercial district that the Islanders boasted that direct sunlight never reached the streets between, but was reflected back and forth from their steel and glass flanks until it reached the pavement.
The guides saw to it that they were settled into their longhouse accommodation, whose furnishings were only slightly less opulent than those of the ambassadorial suites at Tara, and withdrew with the polite reminder that they would return early on the morrow. A number of short tours would precede an important business meeting, it was explained, to enable the menial Islanders as well as the news-gatherers to see that the officers of the ship were physically present in the city. To ensure maximum effect, the touring officers would be divided into small groups.
"The duty is not onerous and you may even find it interesting," Wanachtee said as he was turning to leave, "and you need not speak unless you choose to do so. Now I would advise my pale brother to sleep, or at least rest."
"But I'm not tired," Nolan protested, staring through a window as clear as air at the most famous and beautiful night skyline in the world, "and too excited, I expect, by my first visit to sleep. My body thinks that it is only a few hours after midday!"
Wanachtee gave a small smile of sympathy. "Those who race the sun must pay a penalty for winning," he said, and left.
The bed furs were so deep and soft that when Nolan closed his eyes he could almost believe that he was in free-fall, but so far as inducing sleep was concerned he might as well have been lying on a penitential bed of nails. He felt in turn excited by the night sounds and sights of the city beyond and beneath his window, confused by images of the gentle but very tough little monk who had given it his name, and worried, needlessly perhaps, by the monsignor's lack of response to his story. After a couple of hours that had stretched subjectively into an eternity, he dressed.
At the other end of his corridor he made two discoveries: a guest lounge, which served refreshments throughout the night, and that he was not the only crew-member who could not sleep.
It was a large room with low, comfortable chairs and conveniently positioned tables scattered around it. The outer wall was a single, panoramic window and opposite it was a refreshment board that displayed a rich variety of solid and liquid nourishment. The lighting was tasteful and subdued, neither dim enough to make pedestrian navigation difficult nor so bright that it would spoil the occupants' view of the city.
There were about twenty officer-ecclesiastics scattered about the room, singly and in small groups, and none of them looked up when he entered. The single officers were reading their Breviaries, and Nolan had an aversion amounting to superstitious fear of interrupting a priest at prayer; the others were talking shop so intently that, deliberately or otherwise, they excluded him. Close by the window he could see Brenner and two other noncleric lander pilots having an animated conversation with a broad-shouldered man in a white tunic who was probably the bar-servant. There was food on their table as well as three large, near-empty flagons of what was almost certainly Brenner's native Teutonic beer. Like the others they were much too busy to notice him.
Nolan sighed and chose a seat within ten paces of them to wait for the bar-servant to attend him. He shared Brenner's liking for beer, but as the minutes passed and the servant made no attempt to leave the other table, his anticipation changed to irritation and then to a deepening concern.
