‘Then what can I do?’ he asked, memories returning to him of his frantic dash across the fields towards his destroyed home, and his terrified flight through the forest. ‘Rannick and the creature are far more skilled in the use of their power than I am.’
‘Not so. Not now. You are not what you were. Much of the darkness is gone from you. You are freer than you were, and your true self can guide you more now. And you are indeed well rooted. Mar-ken judged you well, and we were right to aid you.’
Farnor left his considerable doubts unspoken, and mounted his horse. He looked about him, and then began searching through his pockets for his lodespur.
‘We will guide your Mover,’ the voice said.
There was a strangeness in the word Mover that made Farnor frown in puzzlement until he sensed an image of his horse in it. ‘Oh, the horse is a Mover too, is it?’ he said. ‘I thought it was just people you called Movers.’
Amusement filled him. ‘Your separateness breeds such arrogance, Far-nor. There are many Movers, large and small. They fly, they crawl, they walk. Where we are here, they live in us, on us, under us. They feed off us, they serve us. They protect us, and sometimes they destroy us, but that is the way of this place and they do this to return us to ourselves. We touch each in different ways. People, as you call them, are but one such.’
The perspective disturbed Farnor. ‘Brighter than most, I hope,’ he said defensively.
‘Oh yes. And darker than most too. As you yourself saw, perhaps your form is the true form of the Great Evil.’
Suitably diminished, Farnor urged his horse for-ward. Without any further instruction from him, and to his considerable surprise, it set off at a gentle trot.
Riding the horse thus was a strange experience and it took Farnor some time to get used to it. After a short while, however, he reined the horse to a halt and dismounted. He gazed around at the great trees towering above him. Their majestic, silent stillness permeated him, making him, for a timeless interval, one of them. One and many, and truly vast. And without end, through all time. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly, as he gradually became himself again.
‘Thank you, Farnor,’ the voice replied. ‘It has been so long since such as you has moved amongst us. You awaken memories that should not have slept, and you have renewed and deepened our insight into the nature of what it is to be a Mover. And other things.’ A great sorrow came into the voice. ‘We understand better now your own darkness – your pain at the felling of those who made and nurtured you.’ Then, with a poignancy that Farnor could hardly bear, ‘Your separateness is truly a terrible thing. It is little mystery that at times your kind are so demented.’
The voice did not speak again for a long time. The horse, guided by commands that Farnor could not hear, carried him steadily south, sometimes walking, sometimes cantering, but most of the time just trotting. With some considerable regret Farnor moved away from the place where the trees were most ancient, passing over the knoll where he and Uldaneth had parted, and thence the small clearing where he had been camping when they met.
He frowned as he remembered that encounter. Amongst other things, he had forgotten to find out how she had managed to throw him so far so effortlessly. He remembered her chuckle. ‘I didn’t. You did,’ she had said. He swore to himself. He had missed something important there. He should have asked. But then he should have asked Uldaneth many questions, he realized. Still, that was a long time ago. And something that happened to a different person. Even so, he’d have to think about that throw. And he wished she were here now.
As he was carried through the Forest, Farnor began to see for the first time the true splendour of the place. Not only the trees which, though lacking that quality that marked the most ancient, were nonetheless huge and majestic in their own right, but also the countless flowering shrubs and the rich, teeming undergrowth, the whole shot through with bright dappling sunshine, dancing to the endless rhythm of the wind-stirred branches.
And he could do no other than stop and gaze in wonder at the flower-lined banks and clearings which burst upon him from time to time. He remembered Gryss’s gentle reproaches about the yellow Sun’s Eyes that bloomed outside his cottage. ‘How many petals do the flowers have? What shape are the leaves?’ and so on, concluding with, ‘Not looked at them as much as you’d thought, have you?’ It was such a long time ago. And so true.
‘No,’ Farnor mouthed softly to himself. ‘But I’m beginning to now.’
Although the horse was making no great haste, Farnor knew that his progress was quicker by far than when he had been travelling northwards. There were fewer places where he had to dismount and walk the horses, fewer detours around heavily overgrown areas, fewer places full of cold, dank shadows.
It came as little surprise to him therefore when, the following day, he found himself riding into the lodge that had greeted him so sullenly on his outward journey.
Somewhat to his alarm however, there was a large crowd waiting to greet him this time. He reined his horse to a halt and looked at them uncertainly.
A figure detached itself from the group and came towards him, an elderly, frail-looking man. ‘I am Marrin Beechstock, Hearer to this lodge,’ he said, as he reached Farnor. He held out both hands.
Farnor nodded an acknowledgement, still warily eyeing the crowd blocking his way.
Marrin shrugged apologetically. Farnor looked at him carefully. His eyes were bright with exhilaration. Farnor smiled as he recognized the expression. ‘They’ve spoken to you about me, haven’t they?’ he said.
Marrin’s head came forward and his hands shook excitedly. ‘As never before,’ he said, briefly a young man again. ‘Marken’s messages hinted at it, but…’ He waved his hands ecstatically and made no effort to finish what he was saying.
‘What do you – they – want of me?’ Farnor asked, indicating the waiting crowd.
Marrin looked a little guilty. ‘Just to offer you food, and anything else you might need for your journey. And our apologies for the way we greeted you when you passed through before.’
Farnor nodded. ‘It was a wise greeting, I fear. I wasn’t fit company for any civilized hearth.’
He dismounted and gripped Marrin’s arms. The Hearer returned the gesture. Farnor remembered just in time to tense his arms to resist the inevitably powerful grip. There was some applause and cheering from the crowd, which immediately surged forward and sur-rounded them both. Marrin, however, smiling broadly, beat them back. ‘We must remember that our guest is on an important journey,’ he shouted. ‘We mustn’t delay him. Give him your gifts and let him be on his way.’
Before he could offer any resistance to this sugges-tion, Farnor found himself the recipient of several baskets laden with bread, pies and fruit, and bottles.
‘Just water,’ Marrin said paternally. ‘We know you’ll be needing your wits about you. And you’re already quite a faller from what we’ve heard.’
Farnor could do no other than laugh at the old man’s tone. The action felt strange to him, almost hurting his face. ‘I’m afraid I am,’ he agreed, as he turned to the packhorse and began searching for space for the gifts.
The crowd, happy and smiling, milled around him, holding things for him, offering him things, and generally making his task last twice as long as it would have if he had been left alone. Several times he had to pause while he was introduced to various people, whose strange names he immediately forgot, and several times, too, he had to bend low in order to let young children touch his black hair before they ran away giggling.
Eventually, however, he finished. The crowd parted as he mounted, but just as he was about to move off, Marrin emerged again. He was holding a staff. ‘Take this, Farnor,’ he said. ‘It’s good ash. Tight, straight grain. Very strong. Very old. It might even have come from…’ He left the sentence unfinished, but inclined his head significantly towards the north. ‘It’s been in my family for years.’