Читать книгу The Corn King and the Spring Queen - Naomi Mitchison - Страница 14

Chapter Seven

ERIF DER SAT DOWN again on her bed, and wondered if it was true. Supposing it was—it complicated things. She had decided that she was probably going to have a baby, but no one else knew, unless possibly Essro, whom she had asked, as casually as possible, about signs. But that was not so very important if—if this other thing was true; she would not want to tell him. By and bye her women came in to dress her. She never liked that, but the great cone and veil were difficult to put on for herself, and she had to wear them today for the feast after the Council meeting. Her father would be there; she might have to speak to him and Yellow Bull. Her dress was of thick felted wool, so stiff that it stood right away from her feet; it was embroidered all over with spirals of yellow cord, and she had a ring on every finger. That morning she looked rather pale, so they put her on some colour—a round, red spot on each cheek. There was nothing to do till the feast-time.

She sent the crabs down to the beach, and then she took the queen’s keys and unlocked the treasure-room and went in, with lighted torches to stick in the sockets on the pillars. All along three walls there were bronze-bound chests, and hanging above them dresses and armour sewn with jewels and flat gold scales, and strung like onions from the rafters gold-faced skulls made into devils and guardians, with coral drops dangling from their necks in the way blood does when it is cold and sticky. There was another big, standing devil, too, in the middle of the room, facing the door, with black glass eyes and real teeth, and strings of tinkling egg-shells between his hands and the walls. But he would know the queen’s keys, and Erif Der need not be afraid to touch him, nor to stand with her back to him, rummaging in the chests, choosing herself a new wand of tapered jade and a necklace of jade and lapis lazuli, very heavy and cold, to wear at the feast. When she was done, it was time to go to the hall, with all her women behind her, holding up branches of silver and coral and peacocks’ feathers.

All rose to their feet as she came in and took her place at the north end of the table, with Tarrik at the south end. She sat in a very high chair, with steps and a pointed back of streaked marble. On the steps at each side was a girl child, one with tame doves sitting on a green bough, the other with a double flute, and a soft, monotonous tune to play, something to fill the deeps of Erif’s mind while she was talking in the shallows. Round her were women, wives and daughters of the chief men in Marob, stiff and not very real in their hard, embroidered dresses, with the coloured cones on their heads, banded with gold and jewels. Yersha sat in a chair much like Erif’s; she had powder and paint thicker than usual to hide the black rings round her eyes and the slight shrivelling back of tired lips. It seemed also as if she were finding it hard to keep still, as if something was suddenly pricking her from time to time.

Erif talked to the women and saw that the food and drink were plentiful, and graciously took and praised the small customary gifts they brought her, gay-coloured flowers made with waxed threads and silver wire and beads: because it was thought that this was a bad time of year for the Spring Queen, and she must be helped now, or she would not help Marob at Plowing Eve. While they were still eating it grew dark, and even when the lamps and torches were all alight, she could scarcely see down the table as far as Tarrik. She could not, at least, tell what he was talking about. He seemed excited, though, leaning forward, beating on the table, throwing himself back to laugh, open-mouthed. Sphaeros was close to him, little Sphaeros whom she half liked in spite of everything, and her father and brothers, all very fine and glittering. Once or twice Berris, who was nearest, had tried to catch her eye, but she always looked away in time. But if only she knew what they were talking about! This going away … She noticed, interestedly, that her heart was paining her, heaving suddenly outwards and then caught again, as if a hand were squeezing it. At first she thought that this must be someone else’s magic, and angrily set her own on guard. But it was only herself.

At the end of the feast, as drink and talk and music began to break down the set pattern of behaviour in every one’s mind, the men and women moved about, laughing with each other, though nothing more, because it was the Chief’s house. Erif sat on in her chair, between the two girls, grimly, thinking that this way her father would have no chance of whispering. Sometimes she could hear Tarrik’s voice—she listened for it. He had got up, was walking about, kissing any of the girls he fancied, lightly and easily. She wondered whether she minded this or not; on the whole perhaps a little—a very little. It was the other thing she would mind: if he went really away so that she could not even see him!

Berris came down the side of the hall, walking along the bench, just under the torches. The big room fitted itself together into a pattern, a criss-cross of yellow light in fat wedges, a layer of people’s heads, moving and tiny, a layer of glow, hardened here and there to torch or lamp, and a last, most beautiful layer of hollowness and faint shimmer, and the great cross-beams reaching up into darkness and the heavy night pressing on the roof tiles of the Chief’s house. The square heads of the men, the pointed heads of the women, ranged themselves exquisitely under his eyes; and there at the end was his sister, up in her big chair, pretending to be Spring Queen, with her white, smooth child’s forehead, and soft lips. He came towards her quietly and leant over her chair before she was aware of him. She was much more startled than she ought to have been; her eyes went narrow and then wide with fear. ‘It’s only me,’ said Berris; ‘I haven’t seen you—for days. Tell me, is it true Tarrik is going away?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said very softly, looking straight in front of her.

‘He was talking—and every one else—this evening. But he’s not sure. It’s as if he were doing it half against his will. Well, Erif, I suppose that’s you?’

‘Tell father what you like,’ she said. ‘Is he glad?’

But Berris shook his head. ‘We do not talk of this now. I go my way by myself. Only—take care, Erif, I think father is doing without you now.’

She turned her head quickly, the shadows shifting across her face. ‘Doing—what? Berris, who else is with him?’

‘Tarrik knows the Council better than I do,’ said Berris, low. Then: ‘I wonder if he is really going to Hellas—again.’

‘You would like to go with him, Berris.’

‘Yes.’

‘And so would I,’ said Erif surprisingly. ‘I should like to know if it is really Epigethes or Sphaeros.’

‘Yes,’ said Berris again, ‘but you would hate not being able to magic them, Erif, whichever it was.’

‘Magic,’ she said, sitting there, still and small, ‘my magic! I can’t help myself. I can’t be sure what’s going to happen any more than you can when you start thinking of a golden beast.’

‘Can’t you?’ said Berris, very close to her. ‘I thought you had more power than mine.’

Erif looked down and round; suddenly she saw Apphé standing quite near to the other side of the throne, her head cocked like a hunched bird over her thick, brown-clothed body. ‘Yes,’ said Erif, rather louder, ‘I have got more power—as much as I choose to take.’

But Berris went out of the hall, unsatisfied, back to his forge. He often slept there now, rather than at his father’s house, sometimes with a slave-girl he had bought that autumn, an odd little savage, Sardu, brown and supple, from far north-east, beyond the Red Riders’ country, with a flat, bony face and sidelong eyes, very black. Now that Erif was with him so little, he made this girl blow the fire and sort the sweepings from his bench; he used to draw her often, and taught her to sing his own songs, which were too bad for anyone else to hear.

Erif Der managed not to speak to her father or Yellow Bull; she and her women left the feast long before the men, who stayed very late, talking and drinking, so that she scarcely woke for Tarrik’s coming. In the morning she wanted to ask her questions, but he was sound asleep, warm and satisfied looking. She got up and half dressed, and pulled back the shutters from the windows. It was calm and snowing lightly; but the snow did not lie yet, or scarcely at all, only here and there in the road, but not on the beach or the breakwater. As she looked, she saw a covered cart jolt round the corner and stop. Essro stepped out of it, looked round hastily, pulled the shawl over her ears, and ran towards the door of the Chief’s house. Erif left her plaits half finished and ran too. They met in the half-dusk of the second hall. Essro’s women came behind her, carrying baskets; she seemed more fluttered than ever. ‘I’m come,’ she said, with a short, anxious gasp, ‘I’m come—with the things you asked me for, Erif—the herbs!’ Erif, acutely aware that she had never asked Essro for any herbs, called her own maids to come and take the baskets and entertain her sister-in-law’s people; then took Essro by the elbow and led her along to the little room at the head of the stairs. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘tell me.’

Essro went close to her; there were still a few snowflakes not quite melted on the ends of her hair. ‘If Tarrik is going,’ said Essro, slowly and distinctly, ‘let him go at once.’ Erif felt suddenly sick and quivered down on to the floor, half lying; she did not answer. The other woman knelt beside her. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Surely you knew?’ Erif nodded, one hand over her throat. Essro pursed her lips, took the knife from her girdle, and touched Erif with the hilt, here and there.

The Spring Queen sat up, with the flashing smile of one child to another. Thank you, ‘she said.’ Your magic: it never hurts you, Essro?’

‘No. But perhaps it will. I am not so clever as you, Erif. Are you better?’

‘Yes,’ said Erif, then all at once: ‘That was—you know—Tarrik’s child.’

‘Oh!’ said Essro, clasping her hands, ‘oh, they don’t know that!’

‘Who don’t?’ said Erif sharply. ‘Essro—where did you get that message?’

‘From Yellow Bull. Oh, I must go home!’

‘But why? Essro, stay! Was it—is it—is Yellow Bull warning Tarrik because of the road? Because Tarrik gave him a sacrifice? Is father going to do something?’

‘Yes,’ said Essro, with shifting, panicky eyes, ‘tell him! And—oh, Erif—shall I tell them about the baby?’

‘No!’ said Erif, and put her hand for a moment on the hilt of Essro’s dagger, ‘if I need help I will go to you and your magic.’

‘Help?’ said Essro, trembling, trying to go away, and yet always gentle.

‘Yes,’ said Erif, ‘help. A secret road.’

Tarrik sat about, sleepy and strong, while his men dressed him; every now and then he stretched himself largely and yawned, with the colour-stitched white linen of the shirt loose round his neck and wrists. Then they had to stop and stand aside till he was ready, one holding his boots, another with fur coats over his arm for the Chief to choose from if he liked, spotless soft fox and deer pelts, with clean linings of scarlet or black. Tarrik took one at random, knowing they all suited him. He was rather angry with Erif for not being there when he woke; he wanted to talk to her about his plans—if she was in a mood for talk. Even with Sphaeros to advise him—and, now he remembered it, how little positive advice Sphaeros ever gave!—he had been unable to make up his mind about which course was the wisest. He was somehow afraid that if he went it would be merely a flight from uncertainty: Harn Der, and Plowing Eve, and his wife. Suddenly, without noticing how un-Stoic he was being, he made up his mind that he would ask Erif, and if she really wanted him to stay he would stay—because then something would be certain!

He went to the window, as he did every morning, and held out his hands eastwards to the risen sun, which, even behind clouds, as now, must know his brotherhood. Then he sent one of the men to find his Queen and ask her if she would come to him. She came at once, in a long, plainish dress of grey wool checks, and the fur of her coat bordered with heavy silver tissue. He thought it made her look old till he saw how wonderfully glossy her plaits were, hanging over it, and how clear her pale skin showed above the tight, round neck of the dress. ‘Erif,’ he said, ‘I thought of going to Greece with Sphaeros.’ She nodded, facing the fact but not his eyes. ‘I want to see the King of Sparta,’ he went on, ‘and learn if there are not other ways of ruling besides mine.’ He took her hands and pulled her gently down till she was sitting on his knee; she put her arms round his neck and hid her face in the hollow of his shoulder.

‘You mean to go—soon?’ she asked, sorting out her words so as to get no trace of feeling into them.

He tried to look at her face, but she clung tight, with hard wrists and fingers and her forehead butting into him. ‘Quite soon,’ he said, ‘if I do go. Erif—shall I?’

She felt his live, powerful heart-beats under her cheek as she lay against him; for a moment she could not bear to separate herself from them. Tarrik was almost sure he would not have to go, and was glad. He put his arms right round her, for his, for certainty. His lips bent to her round, soft head, the baby hairs at the back of her neck that would not stay in any plait. She did not move; only she said: ‘Yes, you should go.’

The voice was very soft, and yet so clear that he was quite sure he had heard right. He tried once more. ‘Erif, do you want me to go?’

It was she who was startled now; she had not thought there was all this on his side of it; he almost got the no out of her. But at last she said: ‘Yes, Tarrik.’ Then she went quite still again, afraid of the time when his arms must loosen and let her go.

This being so, Tarrik said he would go the next day. He stirred himself and every one else to prodigious energy. They swirled round Erif in a sea of life and action. She was just left in the middle of it, half dead and small and useless. Tarrik summoned the Council. He seemed mad enough now to justify them all. ‘My aunt is to have the power of the Chief,’ he said, and Eurydice came in and stood beside him, stiff and tall and smiling thinly; she gave almost every man in the Council the feeling that she was his aunt too. Harn Der was not badly pleased; this would not be too difficult to deal with. He could not think that there was anyone nowadays who would not rather have him as Chief than Eurydice. But who was to be Corn King? Till he knew that, Harn Der was not prepared to say anything. Tarrik was speaking of what had to be done while he was away, urging the Council to look on his aunt as himself, advise her well and obey her orders, remembering that he himself would be back by midsummer. At last he ended: ‘As to the Corn King. I lend my godhead to Yellow Bull, son of Harn Der. Let him come to me and take what I give him an hour before dawn tomorrow. And I give him full leave to take a tenth of men and money from Marob for the secret road. And I warn him to do this soon.’

For a moment this was too much to believe. Harn Der and Yellow Bull and their friends could not help staring at one another before the shouting started; it seemed impossible to be so favoured. Tarrik put his hand on to his shirt over Erif’s star, and looked at them all with a very clear vision. Then he smiled and sat down. It suddenly occurred to Harn Der that perhaps this was all Erif’s doing, and for the first time for weeks he was pleased with his daughter.

Tarrik did not even go to bed that night. Erif Der lay alone, waiting for him; after about three hours she fell asleep. But he was not in the house at all: he was in his other house, at the far end of Marob, where he was no more Chief, but Corn King and god. It had been cold going there, and very dark, with a few snowflakes falling out of nothing. Inside it was still cold, but airless, choking under the low stone roof. He took his own clothes off, as he had to, chewing bitter berries all the time, and put on the long, red robes, straight from neck to ankles; the stuff was damp and harsh against his skin. He shivered and put on the head-dress and mask, dark polished squares of jet and carbuncle and onyx, the blood-red coral, the upright corn ears, the Single Eye on his forehead. He went into the inner place; the guardian, an old, old woman, crouched in a corner. He stood over her and passed his hand three or four times in front of her face; she slept.

Tarrik took another mouthful of berries, and lighted the lamp over the stone. He did not much like what he was going to do; but it was only till midsummer, and besides he was a pupil of Sphaeros. He tried to think of it all in Greek, but there were no words for half of it. At any rate, this would be Yellow Bull’s pay at Plowing Eve. He took down the Plowshare, blew on it, and wrote in the mist his breath had made. He did the same thing with the Cup and the Sieve, and he undid certain very important knots in the Basket. Last of all he took off his head-dress, and ran a tiny nail into it, so that it would just scratch the ear of the next wearer. He took great care not to touch the point of the nail himself. When that was done, he took off the red robes and got into his own clothes again; it had all taken a long time, and they were cold like a deserted nest.

The next two hours he spent with his head-men at the real, the Chief’s house; they were making him up bales and chests of precious things to take with him. He would come to Hellas as a Power! There were twenty he had bidden make ready to come with him, young men, strong and faithful, all free and of the noble blood of Marob. He gave them everything they wanted, armour and money and fine clothes. They were all sad at leaving their horses. But it was not to be for long. When he came back, he would know how to be a real, Stoic king.

Yellow Bull came as he had been told, an hour before dawn. He and Tarrik went together the way the Chief had already been. They talked about the secret road and how much could be done on it, even in winter. ‘I will make a good road, Chief, I swear I will!’ said Yellow Bull. ‘Yes,’ said Tarrik gently, ‘I am sure of you.’ They were close to the other place now; in a few houses people were stirring; they could see a sudden line of light behind the shutters, the first thin fighting against the night. Yellow Bull suddenly found his eyes full of tears. ‘Nobody else believed in my road,’ he said, ‘and now—’ But Tarrik laid a hand on his arm, and there they were at the door.

Half the town was down at the harbour next morning, with much lamentation. Many of them had brought presents for the Chief to take with him. He had very wisely decided that it would be better to go in the trader rather than in his own state ship, which was much faster and very beautiful, but would not stand continuous bad weather. He walked quickly, with one arm across Sphaeros’ shoulders; they both wore long fur coats and thick boots. The Chief had left his crown for Eurydice, and he was bare-headed, but had a fur hood to put on later if he wanted it. He and his men were all in a bunch together, full of movement and life and warmth under their heavy coats. The Spring Queen and her women came separately from the great door, chill and downcast, to say good-bye. And the Council, with Berris Der and a few others, waited on the breakwater for the Chief to pass. There was not wind enough to sail by, but the rowers were ready; the sky was low and grey over the ship, and the sea grey and scarcely rocking against the harbour walls.

Berris had only heard that morning. The evening of the feast he had not taken it very seriously—he was thinking of his sister. And the day after he had ridden away into the country to draw trees. He had found elms and limes and ashes standing on the bare plain, and he had been so fascinated by the tangles of their black arms that he had stayed there till sunset; and after that he went straight back to the forge, not to his father’s house. He still could not quite realise that Tarrik was going. All these last months he had seen very little of the Chief, but somehow the assurance that he was there had been enough. It seemed to Berris that when he had made something supreme he would show it to Tarrik and everything would be right again. In the meantime he was not sure what he was after; he had done scarcely any solid work, only sketches and a little jewellery and ironwork just to keep his hand in. Since he had found out the truth about Epigethes and the wire keys, he had gone back entirely to his own mind for form and pattern, but now, while Sphaeros had been in Marob, the Hellenic ideas had come softly back and ranged themselves before him, vague and straight and beautiful. For certainly this Sphaeros hated the house of Leonidas in Sparta, and it seemed clear to Berris that it must have been full of just the kind of things that Epigethes liked: that he had liked himself ever so long—nearly a whole year—ago. But what did Sphaeros like? He never could make out, and found it quite impossible to believe what the Stoic assured him was the truth: that these things did not appear to him sufficiently real or important to give him any very great pleasure one way or the other. Now Tarrik and Sphaeros were both going! He stood on the edge of the breakwater, watching the slaves go past with all the things the Chief was taking with him; every time a man went by it seemed as if a bit of himself were going too.

The Chief was talking to his Council now. It occurred to Berris that probably he had the loudest voice of anyone in Marob. Or was it only that he did not care how much he let himself go? The men were all on board now; the ship was only waiting for Tarrik. He was saying good-bye; they gave him the salute, knife and hand. And last, Erif.

She did not know what to say; she wanted to show him some sign. Because love is so much an affair of giving yourself away, by word, or look, or touch. But here, in the middle of this crowd—she had not even told him about the child. If she had: well, if she had he might have stayed. And she wanted him to go: out of danger. ‘Till summer,’ he said, ‘till the fine days and the warm sun, Erif!’ And questioned her with his eyes. But she could not answer. Only she put her hand up on to his breast, hurriedly, clumsily, in under his coat and there was the hard flat lump her star made below his shirt. ‘Look for me here!’ she said. ‘It will tell you—if I live or die. Tarrik, I will be faithful to you!’ He looked down at her hand, then straight at her face; he held her at arm’s length, searching, searching. She dropped her eyes. ‘Give me something!’ she said low, then, as he hesitated, not knowing what would work, she pulled the onyx-handled hunting knife out of its sheath. ‘If this clouds,’ she said, ‘you are in danger.’ She dared not say more, for fear of saying too much. They kissed each other under the eyes of the crowd, a bad, short kiss. Tarrik turned to the sea and the ship.

He saw Berris Der standing on the edge. ‘Good-bye, Berris!’ he said, holding out both hands, smiling. But to Berris it seemed quite impossible to say good-bye all in a minute; he had far too much to talk about. ‘Good luck, Berris,’ said the Chief again, ‘good luck and good-bye!’ But, ‘Oh,’ said Berris, ‘I’m coming too!’ And he jumped on to the ship and Tarrik jumped after him, shouting: ‘Cast off, cast off!’ And so they went to sea.

Erif Der fainted into the arms of two of her women. A very proper display of feeling, every one thought. When she came to, she refused to go back to the Chief’s house and her quiet room. She went instead to the Spring-field, that place of her own that she had just as the Corn King had his. It was barred now, and lightless, till winter was past, but she went in and stayed there while it was day, and came out a little happier; she had done what she could to give Tarrik a good wind and fair weather for his journey.

Harn Der was partly horrified and partly relieved at what Berris had done. It was a foolish and dangerous thing, but, on the other hand, in some ways it made their plans easier if they had not got someone with them who might suddenly change sides—Berris had been as uncertain as all that lately. As it was, he had always wanted to go to Greece, and now he was going. Artists are difficult people to have in a family. And about Erif. ‘I wonder why she fainted like that?’ said Yellow Bull thoughtfully.

‘She may be going to have a child,’ said Harn Der.

‘Essro ought to have told me.’

‘Women like their own secrets, my son. But—if she is—well, I think it must be dealt with. If Tarrik is to go, no use not doing it thoroughly.’

‘Will she mind?’ asked Yellow Bull, doubtful.

‘She married him with her eyes open. She has no business to mind. Better for her to get clear of it all. And even if she does mind, it will have to be done; she must know that as well as we do.’

‘Better not speak of it to her.’

‘If she had done what I meant and worked her magic better it would never have happened. But women are like that, even the cleverest.’

‘Yes. Father, it is a queer thing being Corn King suddenly like this. He took me to the House—. Is it strange for you too, your son being God?’

Harn Der rubbed his fingers through his beard; he had not got that sort of mind. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not very strange. I shall not feel it strange when I am Chief, either. I give Yersha about four months.’

‘Yes,’ said Yellow Bull, ‘and there will be a Council meeting tomorrow, father? I can start at once on the secret road!’

That evening Eurydice was looking at herself in the mirror; she wore the crown of Marob, and she thought she looked like a man. She felt like a man, at any rate, full of power. This was her time. And then she thought of Charmantides, and how pleasant it would be if he were to come back from Hellas this summer with a wife, some charming, modest, well-born girl, so that there should be more Greek blood in the line of the chiefs of Marob. A girl who would be a little frightened of the north, the cold and the snow and the savagery, and who would come to her aunt for protection and kindness and love. … If a messenger were sent out to assure him that Erif Der was dead. If she was really dead. It would be for every one’s good. Erif Der and her magic dead and done with.

On the ship, out of sight of land, Tarrik had supper early among his friends, with Sphaeros on one side and Berris on the other. He loved them both—and all this company of men, free and singing and his own to command! He was happy and very tired. Not long after it was full dark, he stood up and bade good night to them all, and to Berris. ‘I’m glad you came,’ he said, ‘it was you I wanted all the time. God, I am sleepy—I was doing things all last night. Take anything you want from my stores, Berris—anything. If I’m still asleep, come and wake me at sunrise. We shall be that nearer Hellas. Good night, Sphaeros, and good dreams, sleeping or waking!’

Erif Der was alone in the Chief’s house. She had all the lamps alight in her room, and the shutters open too; it was still enough for that. She sat on the edge of her bed, undressed, with a fur rug pulled round her, clutched under her chin. There was no one in the room, nothing to hurt her. But still she sat there, quite quiet, watching and listening, very white.