“The scion of a common family, though once well-to-do as prosperity goes in Orcus. His father, Gileb, was a trader who owned several land vehicles and claimed descent from the founder of the Companions. His mother, Nomi, has a genealogy still more venerable, back to the first humans on Aeneas.”
“What happened?”
“You may recall, some sixteen years ago this region suffered a period of turmoil. A prolonged sandstorm brought crop failure and the loss of caravans; then quarreling over what was left caused old family feuds to erupt anew. They shook the very Companions. For a time we were ineffective.”
Ivar nodded. He had been searching his memory for news stories, and come upon accounts of how this man had won to rule over the order, restored its discipline and morale, and gone on to rescue his entire society from chaos. But that had been the work of years.
“His possessions looted by enemies who sought his blood, Gileb fled with his wife and their infant son,” Yakow went on in a level tone. “They trekked across the Antonine, barely surviving, to a small nord settlement in the fertile part of it. There they found poverty-stricken refuge.
“When Gileb died, Nomi returned home with her by then half-dozen children, to this by then pacified country. Jaan had learned the shoemaker’s trade, and his mother was—is—a skillful weaver. Between them, they supported the family. There was never enough left over for Jaan to consider marrying.
“Finally he had his revelation … made his discovery … whatever it was.”
“Can you tell me?” Ivar asked low.
The gaze upon him hardened. “That can be talked of later,” said Yakow. “For now, methinks best we consider what part you might play, Firstling, in the liberation of Aeneas from the Empire—maybe of mankind from humanness.”
XVII
In headcloth, robe, and sandals, skin stained brown and hair black, Ivar would pass a casual glance. His features, build, and blue eyes were not typical; but though the Orcans had long been endogamous, not every gene of their originally mixed heritage was gone, and occasional throwbacks appeared; to a degree, the prophet himself was one. More serious anomalies included his dialect of Anglic, his ignorance of the native language, his imperfect imitation of manners, gait, a thousand subtleties.
Yet surely no Terran, boredly watching the playback from a spy device, would notice those differences. Many Orcans would likewise fail to do so, or would shrug off what they did see. After all, there were local and individual variations within the region; besides, this young man might well be back from several years’ service among nords who had influenced him.
Those who looked closely and carefully were the least likely to mention a word of what they saw. For the stranger walked in company with the shoemaker.
It had happened erenow. Someone would hear Jaan preach, and afterward request a private audience. Customarily, the two of them went off alone upon the mountain.
Several jealous pairs of eyes followed Jaan and Ivar out of town. They spoke little until they were well away from people, into a great and aloof landscape.
Behind and above, rocks, bushes, stretches of bare gray dirt reached sharply blue-shadowed, up toward habitation and the crowning Arena. Overhead, the sky was empty save for the sun and one hovering vulch. Downward, land tumbled to the sullen flatness of the sea. Around were hills which bore thin green and scattered houses. Traffic trudged on dust-smoking roads. Ilion reared dark, the Linn blinding white, to north and northeast; elsewhere the horizon was rolling nakedness. A warm and pungent wind stroked faces,” fluttered garments, mumbled above the mill-noise of the falls.
Jaan’s staff swung and thumped in time with his feet as he picked a way steadily along a browser trail. Ivar used no aid but moved like a hunter. That was automatic; his entire consciousness was bent toward the slow words:
“We can talk now, Firstling. Ask or declare what you will. You cannot frighten or anger me, you who have come as a living destiny.”
“I’m no messenger of salvation,” Ivar said low. “I’m just very fallible human bein’, who doesn’t even believe in God.”
Jaan smiled. “No matter. I don’t myself, in conventional terms. We use ‘destiny’ in a most special sense. For the moment, let’s put it that you were guided here, or aided to come here, in subtle ways"—his extraordinary eyes locked onto the other and he spoke gravely—"because you have the potential of becoming a savior.”
“No, I, not me.”
Again Jaan relaxed, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “I don’t mean that mystically. Think back to your discussions with High Commander Yakow. What Aeneas needs is twofold, a uniting faith and a uniting secular leader. The Firstman of Ilion, for so you will become in time, has the most legitimate claim, most widely accepted, to speak for this planet. Furthermore, memory of Hugh McCormac will cause the entire sector to rally around him, once he raises the liberation banner afresh.
“What Caruith proclaims will fire many people. But it is too tremendous, too new, for them to live with day-today. They must have a … a political structure they understand and accept, to guide them through the upheaval. You are the nucleus of that, Ivar Frederiksen.”
“I, I don’t know—I’m no kind of general or politician, in fact I failed miserably before, and—”
“You will have skilled guidance. But never think we want you for a figurehead. Remember, the struggle will take years. As you grow in experience and wisdom, you will find yourself taking the real lead.”
Ivar squinted through desert dazzlement at a far-off dust devil, and said with care:
“I hardly know anything so far … Jaan … except what Yakow and couple of his senior officers have told me. They kept insistin’ that to explain—religious?—no, transcendental—to explain transcendental aspect of this, only you would do.”
“Your present picture is confused and incomplete, then,” Jaan said.
Ivar nodded. “What I’ve learned—Let me try and summarize, may I? Correct me where I’m wrong.
“All Aeneas is primed to explode again. Touchoff spark would be hope, any hope. Given some initial success, more and more peoples elsewhere in Sector Alpha Crucis would join in. But how’re we to start? We’re broken, disarmed, occupied.
“Well, you preach that superhuman help is at hand. My part would be to furnish political continuity. Aeneans, especially nords, who couldn’t go along with return of Elders, might well support Firstman of Ilion in throwin’ off Terran yoke. And even true believers would welcome that kind of reinforcement, that human touch: especially since we men must do most of work, and most of dyin’, ourselves.”
Jaan nodded. “Aye,” he said. “Deliverance which is not earned is of little worth in establishing freedom that will endure, of no worth in raising us toward the next level of evolution. The Ancients will help us. As we will afterward help them, in their millennial battle … I repeat, we must not expect an instant revolution. To prepare will take years, and after that will follow years more of cruel strife. For a long time to come, your chief part will be simply to stay alive and at large, to be a symbol that keeps the hope of eventual liberation alight.”
Ivar nerved himself to ask, “And you, meanwhile, do what?”
“I bear the witness,” Jaan said; his tone was nearer humble than proud. “I plant the seeds of faith. As Caruith, I can give you, the Companions, the freedom leaders everywhere, some practical help: for instance, by reading minds under favorable circumstances. But in the ultimate, I am the embodiment of that past which is also the future.
“Surely at last I too must go hide in the wilds from the Terrans, after they realize my significance. Or perhaps they will kill me. No matter. That only destroys this body. And in so doing, it creates the martyr, it fulfills the cycle. For Caruith shall rise again.”