Shardik

'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 different places – Bekla, Ikat, Thettit, 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 and so on, in the days when I – er – lived in Bekla: and the Ban of Sarkid has helped us a great deal.'

Siristrou could not help feeling a certain distaste. Apparently this young governor, in his enthusiasm 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 think 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 words came hesitantly, and Siristrou realized with some surprise that apparently 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 said more than 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-smiling, 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 swiftly -' '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.