Mounting the platform with his seven prisoners, D’ol Regle directed them to stand to his left, against the wall, while he seated himself at the small table. Placing the tool of violence carefully on the table before him, he clapped his hands sharply. A large hooded figure entered from a door at the rear of the platform, leading two others, much smaller but also shrouded from view. The hoods that covered the faces of the two small figures made it impossible for them to see, so they were forced to walk slowly, shuffling their feet. When they had been led to the opposite side of the platform, they were bound in place by silken cords, which were passed around their waists and then secured to the grillwork of the wall behind them. The large figure then removed their hoods and retired through the door by which he had come.

  Disheveled and tearful, Pomma and Teera blinked and squinted in the sudden light. At the sight of them, a sudden hush fell over the chamber. At the long lower table the men and women of the Geets-kel sat like carved statues, while on the platform the utter silence was broken only by Kanna’s soft sobbing gasp. Then Teera turned, and looking past D’ol Regle, she saw for the first time the group of people standing against the opposite wall. Suddenly her tear-stained face was transformed, and holding out both arms she struggled against the bonds that encircled her waist.

  At Teera’s cry of “Mother,” Kanna started forward, but D’ol Regle motioned her back with one hand while the other reached, out to touch the weapon that lay on the table before him. She paused only for a moment and would have again moved forward, had not Herd and Neric reached out to hold her back.

  Silence again descended, but to Raamo it was a silence that screamed of fear and confusion. The pain of it quickly became unbearable, and for a moment he shut his eyes, trying to shut it out, but it was useless. The turmoil came through to him as if distilled from every breath of air. He struggled against it, fighting to keep his composure, until a sudden harsh grating noise reached through the silent voices of pain, and his eyes flew open.

  D’ol Regle had risen suddenly, and it had been the scrape of chair legs that had echoed so harshly in the silent chamber. As all eyes turned to the novice-master, he began to speak.

  “Honored members of the Geets-kel,” he said. “We are met today to confront the greatest danger, the greatest threat to Peace and Joy, in all the history of Green-sky. And because of this danger we must make a decision, the most difficult and painful decision ever demanded of us, or of any others among the Ol-zhaan in our long history. There are, of course, only two possible alternatives.

  “We may decide to release these persons who stand before you on this platform and concede to their demands. If this should be our decision, we must then share the responsibility for the release of the Pash-shan into Green-sky, and for the final and unalterable loss of the innocence and faith that have for so long protected the Kindar from the evils that destroyed our ancestors. Therefore we must consider carefully just what the risks of such a course of action would be.

  “We must consider the difficulties and dangers that might arise when the power of the sacred Root of D’ol Wissen has lost its meaning, and the dark hordes of the Pash-shan are free to pour forth into the cities of the Kindar. Consider that, while these Erdlings, as they have named themselves, are in truth not inhuman monsters, they are in fact, far, far removed from the Kindar in many important ways. Consider the fact that they are, and undoubtedly will remain, flesh-eaters—in a land where the taking of life for any reason has always been unthinkable. Consider the fact that the Erdlings are, for the most part, descendants of those who were banished from Green-sky because of their inability to control the force of their emotions and channel them into expressions of Love and Joy. Consider well this meeting. This meeting of these children of earth and fire—accustomed to the uncontrolled expression of every instinct and emotion—with the Kindar—whose heritage is light and air, innocence and faith, mind and Spirit. What would come of such a meeting, fellow Geets-kel? What could come of it?”

  As the rich, full voice of D’ol Regle rolled forth, the men and women of the Geets-kel sat in utter silence, their faces blank and impassive. The turmoil of thought and feeling that Raamo had pensed so strongly at the first sight of the captive children was now gone, or carefully hidden by mind-blocking. Staring at the masklike faces, Raamo found it impossible to read the thoughts and feelings that lay behind them.

  “And there is yet more to consider,” D’ol Regle went on. “We must not forget that if the Kindar learn the true nature of the Pash-shan, they must also learn how and why they were first imprisoned below the Root. And thus they must be told the full truth concerning their own terrible history and the awful fate of their ancestral planet. They will therefore be burdened not only with the knowledge of their own heritage of violence and destruction, but also with the sudden realization that we, the Ol-zhaan, have withheld the truth and led them to believe in things that were not true. Thus, along with their innocence they will lose their faith; and the invasion of the Pash-shan will find them in a state of complete chaos and demoralization.”

  D’ol Regle paused, and turning away from the Geets-kel, he looked from side to side. First at the two children who now sagged limply in their bonds, clinging together for comfort, their faces crumpled with fear and confusion. He turned next to stare for a long time at his adult captives, at Raamo and Genaa and Neric, at the two Erdlings, at Hiro D’anhk, and at D’ol Falla. And as he stared, the Geets-kel stared also.

  Blank-faced and shallow-eyed, the Geets-kel looked at the three youthful Ol-zhaan, two of whom were still in the first year of their novitiate, wondering, perhaps, what youthful arrogance had driven these three to challenge the customs and traditions of their elders. They stared at the fur-clad figures, the two Erdlings, tawny-skinned, smeared with earth and tears, inhumanly alien in their tight, soft furs and gleaming metal baubles. And at the Verban, the banished one, the brilliant Kindar leader whose compulsive curiosity and un-Kindarlike suspicions had necessitated his banishment to a life of exile. And perhaps they stared longest of all at D’ol Falla—their own D’ol Falla, who for so many years had been revered and honored above all others, and who now stood with this handful of rebels whose very existence threatened everything tried and tested, comfortable and secure. To their eyes D’ol Falla, herself, would seem changed, perhaps. Stripped of her familiar regal dignity, which had always given her a stature that had nothing to do with her actual size, she would seem shrunken, reduced to childlike dimensions. But at the same time, the unique quality of her presence would, perhaps, seem more pronounced than ever—her green eyes alight with a strange new fire. So the Geets-kel stared blank-eyed from behind careful barriers of mind-force, and it was impossible to tell what they might be thinking.

  But now D’ol Regle was speaking again. “The other alternative,” he was saying. “The only other alternative would be to make it impossible for these nine individuals to reach either the Kindar, to contaminate them with evil knowledge, or the lower regions, to carry the knowledge of the secret opening in the Root to the Pash-shan. This could be done for the present by shutting them away inside the chamber of the Forgotten until more suitable quarters could be prepared to hold them. It would be possible to construct chambers that would be—”

  “A prison.” The voice came from the lower table, and D’ol Regle turned his gaze to the Ol-zhaan, D’ol Birta. “Yet another prison?” she said.

  “You are right, D’ol Birta,” D’ol Regle said. “Such was the term used on the ancestral planet. But I was about to say that it would be possible to construct chambers that would be comfortable and equipped with every necessity, but from which there would be no means of exit. Thus the danger that threatens Green-sky could be averted, and the threat contained. The people of Green-sky, Kindar and Ol-zhaan alike, could continue to live in the Peace and Love and Joy proclaimed by D’ol Nesh-om in the days of the Flight.”

  D’ol Regle’s voice had risen until it rolled forth rich and full, filling the secret chamber with a rhythmic and hypnotic force, and now it dropped suddenly to a compelling whisper.

  “These are the choices, fellow Geets-kel. On the one hand change and chaos, danger and despair, and on the other the preservation of all our sacred traditions and values, by the simple expediency of shutting away a handful of dangerous troublemakers. What is your choice, fellow Geets-kel?”

  For a moment there was silence. Among the sixteen men and women of the Geets-kel no one moved or spoke, until at last the old Vine-priest, D’ol Wassou, rose to his feet. “Let us hear D’ol Falla,” he said. “Let us hear what D’ol Falla has to say of these matters.”

  Shaking his head, D’ol Regle said, “I think it unnecessary to—” But the approving murmur and nodding of heads among the Geets-kel made it apparent that there were others who agreed with D’ol Wassou. Turning to D’ol Falla he said, “Very well then. What would you say to D’ol Wassou, D’ol Falla, and to all who wish to know why you decided upon the strange and dangerous course that you and these others have taken?”

  For a moment D’ol Falla seemed to hesitate; and when at last she stepped forward, her movements were trembling and unsure. Her voice, always husky and wavering, was almost unintelligible as she began to speak. “You must know, D’ol Wassou, and all of you who have known me for so long, why I have decided as I have. My goal is now, as it has always been, the happiness and well-being of the Kindar and the faithful observance of the sacred Oath of the Spirit proclaimed to us by Nesh-om. But I have seen how those goals could never be reached by the paths we have been following. This new path has not been easy for me, and I know it would not be easy for any—not for Kindar, nor Erdling, nor Ol-zhaan. But there is a chance it may succeed. It is only a chance, but to return to the temporary security of the old ways would give us not even that. To return to the separation of the Kindar and the Pash-shan is to return to the ancient evil of separation and loss: the loss of intensity of feeling that comes from separation—of people from people, body from Spirit, thought from feeling; and to that which has so long been happening in Green-sky before our eyes, the slow death of the Spirit-skills, apathy and illness; and finally to the very thing we have most wished to avoid—to violence—to the violence that erupts when the instinct to live fully and intensely is denied, and is at last sought for in desperation, through killing and dying.”

  For a moment Raamo felt certain that they had won. D’ol Falla had said it so clearly and completely, surely the others would understand and agree. But then he saw that the faces of the Geets-kel were still blank and empty and there was no understanding in their eyes. Could it be that it had sounded so perfect because he had heard more than words, and the Geets-kel had heard much less?

  Clearing his throat confidently, D’ol Regle began to speak again. “It is sadly apparent that our honored colleague has, due to her great age, become irrational. It is obviously irrational to blame the loss of the ability to pense and kiniport on the banishment of the Pash-shan. And it surely is irrational to ask us to trade our present security for almost certain destruction. And not only our own destruction, although it is true that it is certainly we, the Ol-zhaan, who will be placed in the greatest danger. Therefore give me your approval, and I will immediately escort these rebels, renegades and aliens to the chamber of the Forgotten, which has already been prepared for their arrival.” As he spoke, D’ol Regle turned towards the table, and for a moment he rested his hand lightly on the weapon that lay there. As if drawn by an irresistible force, every eye in the meeting chamber turned towards the weapon and lingered, as if unable to break away. On the far side of the platform, Teera and Pomma stared at it too, turned to stare wide-eyed at each other, and looked again at the strange object on the table.

  Then D’ol Wassou spoke again from the lower table. “And what of your oath, D’ol Regle? What of the Oath of Nesh-om, by which you swore to lift your hand to no one, except to offer Love and Joy?”

  Impatiently, D’ol Regle turned once more to face the lower table. Stepping forward, he stared at D’ol Wassou for a long moment before he answered. “I offer no violence,” he said at last. “I offer these rebels who have so seriously threatened our well-being only a comfortable and well-cared-for detainment—unless they will not have it so.”

  “I will not have it so!” It was Neric who shouted, in a voice that throbbed with uncontrolled emotion. Stepping away from the other prisoners, he stood alone near the edge of the platform, facing D’ol Regle. “I will not have it so,” he said again, and this time his voice was calmer and even more frightening. “I will not go with you. The others may decide for themselves; but as for me, you must release me or destroy me.”

  For a moment the two men stared at each other—the one lean and young, visibly trembling and yet terrible in his supreme certainty—the other stately and imperious and no less rigidly certain of his righteousness. D’ol Regle was turning slowly towards the weapon when suddenly D’ol Falla cried out.

  “Wait! Stop!” she cried. “This is not the answer. This has never been the answer.”

  D’ol Falla’s voice, usually so slight and rasping, had, for one moment been loud and clear, but now it faded to a weak whisper. “There is another way—another answer. There must be.” Turning to Raamo, she reached out to him pleadingly. “Raamo. The answer. What is it?” Grasping his arm, she pulled him forward to stand beside her, between Neric and D’ol Regle.

  Staring into the green eyes, caught up in the intensity of her faith in him, Raamo was swept by a sudden feeling of confidence. Surely now, when it was so desperately needed, it would come to him—the answer that D’ol Falla felt so certain he was meant to find.

  Closing his mind to all else, he concentrated every particle of his being and sent his Spirit-force out into the shadows of the unknown, seeking and listening, but no words came to him, nor any images. Instead it came again with maddening insistence, the hauntingly irregular melody of the “Answer Song.” He fought against it, trying to shut it out, to reach past it—but to no avail.

  When he could hope no longer, he opened his eyes. D’ol Falla was still regarding him pleadingly. Turning away, he looked towards the Geets-kel. Looking down at their upturned faces, it seemed to Raamo that the Geets-kel, too, were expecting a foretelling—depending on him for an answer.

  Holding out his hands in a gesture of helplessness, he shook his head sadly. And then, because he had no other message, and because the song, the children’s nonsense song, still echoed in his mind, he began to sing:

  “What is the answer?

  When will it come?

  When the day is danced and sung,

  And night is sweet and softly swung,

  And all between becomes among,

  And they are we and old is young,

  And earth is sky,

  And all is one.

  Then will the answer come,

  Then will it come to be,

  Then it will be.”

  He sang sadly, with his eyes closed against the tears of despair, and his voice fell soft but clear into a deep stillness. He sang it through to the end, and as the last words faded, there was a gasp, and then a low swelling moan, which seemed to come from many throats.

  For a moment Raamo thought they moaned for him—for the childish foolishness of his response to their entreaty. But only for a moment, because then he was suddenly aware of the great flowing Spirit-power that he had felt once before—in the palace of D’ol Regle. “Uniforce,” a voice breathed. “It is uniforce.” Opening his eyes, Raamo saw that the Geets-kel were staring as if in awe, and then rising, one by one, to extend their arms in the Kindar gesture of reverence and respect.

  Turning, Raamo looked past D’ol Regle—a D’ol Regle whose majestic bulk seemed strangely shrunken and whose rigid calm had been replaced by what seemed to be a bewilderment that was quickly crumbling into abject fear.

  Beyond the trembling mass of the novice-master were the children, Pomma and Teera, still bound and standing against the far wall. But they were not as they had been before. They now stood erect, their arms stretched out before them, their small faces transformed—alight with a deep, still radiance. Their hands, with fingers widespread, reached out towards the center of the platform, to something that was moving slowly towards them through the air.

  Airborne, turning slowly in space, the ancient artifact of violence seemed also to be strangely transformed. Relieved of its harsh and heavy nature and rendered airy and unreal, it drifted slowly towards the children and then sank gently to the floor before their feet.

  For a moment they stared down at it, their faces still and intent; and then, turning slowly, they looked at each other. For a fleeting instant Teera’s full lips curved in a smile that was mischievously triumphant, and Pomma’s eyes danced in answer. Then, solemnly, they turned to face the others—and the results of the game they had taught each other how to play.

  A Biography of Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Zilpha Keatley Snyder (b. 1927) is the three-time Newbery Honor–winning author of classic children’s novels such as The Egypt Game, The Headless Cupid, and The Witches of Worm. Her adventure and fantasy stories are beloved by many generations.

  Snyder was born in Lemoore, California, in 1927. Her father, William Keatley, worked for Shell Oil, but as a would-be rancher he and his family always lived on a small farm. Snyder’s parents were both storytellers, and their tales often kept their children entertained during quiet evenings at home.

  Snyder began reading and telling stories of her own at an early age. By the time she was four years old she was able to read novels and newspapers intended for adults. When she wasn’t reading, she was making up and embellishing stories. When she was eight, Snyder decided that she would be a writer—a profession in which embellishment and imagination were accepted and rewarded.