The Gathandrian Trilogy 03 - The Executioners Cane

was then it truly struck him: the river of pain was not only in his mind, but it clung to the stones and mud of the village also. It flowed through the air he breathed and lurked within the well. It rubbed against his body as he moved, even only in thought, and it could not be escaped. The misery had become flesh and he understood why the villagers did not return on a permanent basis; the threat of wolves and winter was easier to bear than this terrible distortion of home. He wondered indeed at the courage, or real desperation, of the women and children who remained. The village needed to be cleansed of the dreadful things which had happened here, both directly and through the mind-links with Gathandria. Simon thought there was such strength in the links between the lands, but such potential for vulnerability too.
    As he made his way past the shattered homes of those he’d never really known, the echo of their lives and what they had once been sparked through the darkness: children and laughter; the smell of corn in the oven; the braids knitted by the women; the boots of the men, muddy from the fields. A hard life but not an overly cruel one, until the coming of the scribe, and how that in the end had brought the mind-executioner to them. There was much he had to put right, more perhaps than he had imagined, but he would do it. Whatever griefs lay ahead, let them be his alone, and let the people he had injured go free.
    Something turned within him, coinciding with his thought. He felt as if a door had been opened and let in unaccountable light. The pain remained, a dark and silent shadow in the background, but this did not overcome the sense of space filling him. For a moment he understood someone else accompanied him in this walking vision and he waited for a voice, but no-one spoke. Perhaps the voice was simply in what he saw and not what might be heard this time-cycle.
    The Lost One allowed the pain and the spaciousness to dwell within him, denying neither, simply letting them exist. He knew soon he was likely to have need of them both for whatever the Spirit of Gathandria might intend.
    After a while, although he could not tell the extent of it by a story’s length, Simon became aware the glimpses of the villagers, and indeed the village itself, were fading around him. He began to hear the steady pace of his own breathing, and he caught the faint scent of spices in the air. Then the press of the chair against his legs and the weight of someone’s hand on his shoulder.
    He blinked himself into the surroundings of the Lammas castle kitchen again.
    “Scribe?”
    “Yes,” he whispered, placing the voice as Frankel’s. “Yes, I am here.”
    Frankel let him go and at once Simon missed the connection. He didn’t remember anyone touching him with concern since he’d returned to his former home. Bearing in thought his skills, it had been a small act of courage. The scribe could taste the old man’s mind in his; he had not been prepared enough to form any kind of barrier between them. He shook himself, tried to focus on his own thoughts only.
    His companion frowned. “You looked as if you were a long way from here.”
    “I know. I think in some ways that’s true, although what I saw was your village. That’s familiar enough, or rather it was so. But as I walked along the main street, past the wells, I could feel the presence of the people who once lived there standing at the edges of my thought. I could see their lives, almost experience them, even though I know it’s a vision, not the reality you and yours have suffered here.”
    He stopped abruptly, wanting to say so much more but being unsure how it might sound. If he were in Gathandria, it would be a simple matter to offer a brief mind-link, and then all his thoughts could be known fully without words. Here, such an act would be, because of what he and Ralph had done, a reminder of injustice and death. Besides, he could not suggest it to one who was not a mind-dweller himself. It would be unthinkable. He glanced up at Frankel.
    The old man looked puzzled. “There is more you wish to say?”
    Simon took a breath, knowledge coalescing within him. “I came back because I believed it to be the right thing to do. I still believe this, no matter what you and the villagers decide about me. What I hadn’t fully comprehended, and I do so now only in part, were the depths and heights, the length and the breadth of your suffering. Forgive me, Frankel, because