Читать книгу The Corn King and the Spring Queen - Naomi Mitchison - Страница 9

Chapter Two

BY AND BYE ERIF Der felt that someone was watching her; she looked up, rather cross at having been caught. Under her eye-lashes she saw Tarrik lolling against one of the door-posts, quite quiet, with a bow in his left hand. He had a squarish, smiling, lazy face; the oddest thing about it were his bright brown eyes that looked straight into yours. He was clean shaven about the chin, but in front of his ears and on his cheek-bones near the outward corners of his eyes, there were little soft hairs. He was brown and red as to colour, as if he lay out in the sun all day, and let it warm his bare skin while others were working. Like Berris, he wore loose shirt and trousers, both of white linen, and a white felt coat embroidered with rising suns and a criss-cross of different-coloured sunrays. His belt was all gold, dolphins linked head to tail; it had a rather small sword hanging from it on one side, and at the other a gold-plated quiver of arrows, a whistle, and a tiny hunting-knife with an onyx handle. He wore a crown, being Chief, a high felt cap, covered with tiers and tiers of odd, fighting, paired griffins in soft gold; his hair, underneath, was dark brown and curly; on his upper lip, too, it was brown and quite short, so that one saw his mouth, and, when he laughed, as he often did, his white, even, upper teeth.

The girl looked quickly from him to her brother; but Berris was tap-tapping on the gold, with his back to them both. Tarrik smiled, tightened his bowstring and began playing with it, till it buzzed like a wasp. She frowned at him, not sure whether he mightn’t be laughing at her, treating her like a baby, when really it was she who had all the power. She put her hand to the wooden star under her dress.

Then the tapping at the bench stopped and Berris called her to blow the fire again; the gold was getting brittle, he had to anneal it. As he got up, Tarrik made the bowstring sound sharply again. He slipped off the stool and gave the Chief his formal salute, right hand with bare knife up to the forehead, then went over and took Tarrik by the upper arms and shook him with pleasure at the meeting. Tarrik grinned, and let him, and Erif Der took the opportunity of getting to her feet and taking out the wooden star. ‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ said Berris. ‘Oh, Tarrik, I’ve had a terrible day! I thought I’d made something good and it wasn’t!’

‘How do you know?’ said Tarrik, and his voice was as pleasant as his smile. ‘Let me see it.’

Berris shook his head. ‘No. I killed it. Wait, though; let me get this hot now, or it will crack.’ He took the gold and put it carefully on to the fire, gripping it lightly all the time with his wood-handled tongs.

Tarrik leant over to look. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s bad. You’d better melt it down, Berris.’

At that Berris coloured, but still held the buckle steady in the flame. ‘Suppose,’ he said, ‘suppose you know nothing at all about it?’

‘Has our handsome friend Epigethes been here? Has he?’ asked Tarrik. ‘I thought so.’ He looked across the fire at Erif Der, blowing the bellows, with the bracelet on one arm and the star tight in the other hand. He began to sing at her, very low, in time with her movements, a child’s rhyme about little ships with all kinds of pretty ladings. And still she was not sure if he was laughing at her or making love to her. The fire on the forge between them nearly stopped her from working on him.

The gold was hot and soft by now; it would not crack. Berris Der took it out and across to the bench. ‘It’s bad, it’s bad, it’s bad,’ said Tarrik, leaning over, ‘it’s like a little Greek making a face.’ And suddenly Erif Der found that she liked Tarrik. That was so surprising that she nearly dropped the star; because she had never really thought of her own feelings before. There was she, Harn Der’s daughter and a witch; so of course she would do everything she could for her father and brothers. And there was the Chief, who was to have the magic done on him, to be her husband for a few months—because that was part of it—but never, somehow, to get into her life. But if she liked him it would all be much harder. Quickly, fear came swamping into her mind; she wanted to stop, to run away. She began to creep out, very quietly, slinking along the walls of the forge. But Berris wanted his gold heated again; he called her to blow the fire, angrily, because he was working badly and because he hated Tarrik to tell him so. She went back, her head in the air, pretending to herself and every one else that she knew exactly what she wanted. But while she blew she got fuller of panic every moment. If she could not run, at any rate something must happen!

Tarrik was talking to Berris Der very gently, spinning his bow on its end or playing a sort of knuckle-bones with odd pieces of wood. Most of the time he was abusing Epigethes, quite thoroughly, with maddeningly convincing proofs of everything he said. Sometimes Berris wanted not to hear, to be too deep in what he was doing, and sometimes he answered back, violently, trying to stop it. ‘He’s the first Greek artist who’s ever had the goodness to come here,’ he said, ‘and this is all the welcome he gets! You—you who should have some feeling for Hellas—you haven’t even the common decency to be civil to him the first time you meet. And you don’t even manage to frighten him, you just make a fool of yourself—and a fool of Marob in all the cities of the world.’

‘Not if the corn we send them stays good,’ said Tarrik, rather irritatingly.

‘Corn! You used to care for beauty. But when beauty comes to us you won’t even look.’

‘And you won’t look beyond a pretty tunic and a Greek name. Well, I’ve got a Greek name too, call me by it and see if you don’t pay more attention to what I say.’

‘You fool, Tarrik!’

‘Charmantides.’

‘You—God, I’m over-heating it!’ He snatched the buckle out of the fire and back to the window.

Tarrik followed him: ‘But if you do—isn’t it bad and getting worse? Berris, look at it, look at it fresh, what’s all this nonsense here, all this scratching, what is it about? There’s no strength in it—oh, it is a bad little buckle! What else have you made?’

‘Nothing, nothing—I never have! All the beauty goes, the beauty goes between my eye and my hand! Oh, it’s no use!’ And suddenly he saw how bad it really was and dropped the hammer, let go of everything, and sat with his hands fallen at his sides and his forehead on the edge of the bench.

‘Stop!’ said Tarrik. ‘Get up! Listen to me. I’m being Charmantides now. I’m just as good a Greek as Epigethes and I don’t want to be paid for my lesson. I’m good Greek enough to know it’s not something—something magic,’ he said, looking round, a little startled, as if that had not been quite the thing he meant to say. ‘There’s no use our copying Hellas; we haven’t the hills and the sun. You know, Berris, that I’ve been there, I’ve seen these cities of yours, and I would see them again gladly if I could, if I were not Chief here. And they are not so very wonderful; they are not alive as we are, and always I thought they were in bond. They pretend all the time, they even think they are free, but truly they are little and poor and peeping from side to side at their masters, Macedonia on one side, Egypt and Syria the other. Hellas is old, living on memories—no food for us. Turn away from it, Berris.’

‘Then you think my buckle is as bad as all that?’ asked Berris mournfully, bringing it all, of course, to bear on his own work.

‘Look for yourself,’ said Tarrik. ‘Take it as a whole. You don’t know what you want. Is it a copy of life, less real, or a buckle for a belt? Which did you think of while you were making it?’

And so they might go on talking for hours and nothing would happen. Erif Der stood at the side of the forge, hands gripping elbows, her eyes full of reflected flames. ‘Tarrik!’ she said, loud and suddenly, ‘is that all you have to say?’ Both men stopped and turned round and looked at her. The light of the forge flickered on her cheeks and long plaits and the front of her throat, coming up, pale and soft out of the rough linen of her dress. Her mouth was a little open; there was a pattern round her feet. Berris stayed by the bench, but Tarrik dropped his bow, and came forward two steps. Aloud, he said, ‘Erif Der, I love you, I want to marry you.’ He reached out towards her, but she was in a circle of her own and would not move from it; only he could hear her breathing gustily, as if she had been running; his own hammering heart sounded plainer still.

She did not answer him, but Berris did, with a question: ‘Do you? Will you marry her?’

‘No—yes,’ said Tarrik, his hands up to his head, pressing the crown down on to his hair, half covering his ears.

Erif Der threw up her hands with a little cry, loosing him. ‘I did it!’ she said, ‘I did it, Chief! Well? Am I clever?’ She stepped out of her circle.

‘Why did you tell me?’ said Tarrik softly. ‘When will you let me go?’

‘But I have!’ she cried. ‘Now say—say what you really want!’

‘I want the same thing,’ said Tarrik and pulled her over to him. She ducked, butting at him, clumsily, childishly, with head and fists, and got kissed on her neck and face and open mouth, maddeningly, and found nothing to shove against, nothing that would stay still and be fought; so that suddenly she went quiet and limp in his arms, and, as suddenly, he let her go. She had trodden on Tarrik’s bow; the string snapped; he picked it up. ‘Witch,’ he said, ‘I shall go to Harn Der, and then I shall marry you.’

‘I give my leave,’ said Berris hastily, ‘and so will father.’ But no one listened to him.

‘Very well,’ said Erif Der. ‘Now listen, Tarrik. I will magic you as much as I please and you will not be able to stop me!’

‘Go on, then,’ said Tarrik, ‘but there are some other things I shall do that you will not be able to stop.’ She smoothed her plaits and stroked her hot face with her own familiar palms. ‘You’ll see,’ she said, and went out. But it was all very well when Berris pulled her hair; next time it would be Tarrik, who was much stronger. She knew her magic depended on herself and could be as much broken as she was; never mind, the sun had come out again, the sea smell swept up the streets of Marob, fresh and strong. She went back to the flax market, half running; father would be pleased with her, she must tell him quick. And how soon could Yersha possibly be got out of the Chiefs house?

Tarrik and Berris Der were still talking. When she had gone, they had dropped back at once to where they had left off, Berris wondering, startled at the way it had come, thinking of his father and not liking to talk about it to Tarrik, because it would have been bound to be all lies. But Tarrik felt wonderfully light, leaping from one thing to another in his airy mind. He had always been rather like this; he knew how it angered the Council and Harn Der, but now it was all marvellously accentuated. He knew that he was free, that nothing mattered—not Marob, not the corn, not the making of beauty, nor his own life. He went on talking seriously, as he had done before, but every now and then laughter rose in him like a secret wind, and shook his mouth while he was speaking about art to Berris Der. By and bye it became too much and he got up, saying he would go to Harn Der later that day, but must go now to the Council. ‘Yes,’ said Berris, startled, ‘because of the road? I should have thought of it—oh, go quick!’ He pushed the bow into his hand and hurried him out. Tarrik went out of the forge and down the street with a kind of swaying, dancing walk, as if he were trying not to bound into the air at every step.

As soon as he was out of sight, Berris took the half-made buckle and melted it down, with some filings he had, and ran it into a plain bar. He would have done the same with the other buckle, but at the last moment he stopped, he could not bear to kill so much of his own work in one morning. Then he damped down the fire, hung up his leather apron, and saw that everything was locked up. He knew he should be glad that the plan was working and his father would be Chief so soon; but yet he felt heavy and sad, partly because of Tarrik, and partly because of his own failures, and partly because there had been so much magic going on round him for the last few hours.

Tarrik was worse than usual at the Council. To start with, he was late—not that he was often anything else, and anyhow they could always get on perfectly well without him—but still, unless he was there, none of their doings had any sacredness: they were only, as it were, parts of his body.

Today they were talking about a great plan that had been started the year before by Yellow Bull, the eldest son of Harn Der, who lived south in the marshes. He had gone over all the ground, punting himself through those queer, half-salt, weed-choked channels that spread inland for miles, alone in a flat boat, living on snared birds and eggs and muddy-tasting fish. He stood before the Council now, a rough-skinned, wild-eyed young man, wearing mostly fur, very eager to have his plan followed, very bad at explaining it. He wanted them to make a secret road through the marshes, building on piles between the islands, digging deep drains towards the sea, and making strong places here and there with walls and towers. There was firm ground a few feet down in many places, and their draining for the road would leave acres of dry pasture, where neither horses nor cattle had ever grazed before. And there were great, wild islands, that needed only to be cleared to get them new lands, where they would be free from attack for ever, out of the reach of the Red Riders, and beyond … Yellow Bull did not know himself how his road should end. It went on and on, getting less real every mile that it went. Whenever he dreamt, it was this: of pushing and winding among endless reed-banks, with the smell of rotting stems always in his nostrils and the mud bubbling among the hidden roots. And his road would follow Yellow Bull through the reeds with great armies marching on it; and yet he would be alone. But Yellow Bull could not tell the Council his dreams, he could not say how much he wanted the road.

And the Council could not decide if it was worth while. Harn Der thought it would be, but saw all the difficulties and dangers there must be. It would take a lifetime, and all the labour there was in Marob—lives and years. The Chief had been more interested in this than in anything that had been before the Council since the Red Riders had been beaten behind the northern hills four seasons ago. He had been most eager to keep it a secret for Marob, have some hidden and guarded entrance, and let no stranger in on to it. He had asked and thought about its end.

Today Yellow Bull and those who cared about the road had hoped to get orders from the Chief; for this, in the end, must be his doing; they had no power to bring such a change to Marob. They had told the Chief, and he had promised to be there. Now there was no sign of him. Even his best friends were angry. At last he came, not by his own door, but from the main road, with a broken-stringed bow in his hand, enough to bring bad luck to anything. He came quite slowly, as if he had not kept them waiting long enough already. Yellow Bull stood with his hand and knife up at the salute, looking very fine and strong and rugged. Harn Der looked from one to the other, and thought very well of his son; and he was not the only one there to think that.

In the very middle of the Council room there was a great, ten-wicked silver lamp, hanging down on a chain. As he passed underneath it, the Chief suddenly ran three steps and jumped, swung forward on the lamp and dropped off. It scattered oil all over the ground on its swing back, and the Council looked shocked and horrified, but none more so than Yellow Bull. Tarrik, on the other hand, took his seat as if nothing had happened, and smiled pleasantly at the Council. They signed to Yellow Bull to speak again; he began, nervously.

It was after this that Tarrik became quite unbearable. He simply sat there and laughed, shatteringly; no one could speak or plan with that going on, least of all Yellow Bull. Only for a few moments did the Chief recover. It was when Harn Der spoke of the end of the road, how one day it might come through the marshes and out to a new land, a seaport perhaps; one of the others had taken this for a danger, opening a way to attack from the south, not the Red Riders, but ship-people—Greeks even. Then Tarrik had spoken, suddenly, bitterly and reasonably, to say that the Greeks were no danger that way—swords came from the north and the north-east; no one need be afraid of Hellas; they had been beaten too often now. The danger was that people should still think them great and wonderful, still do what they said, not through fear of war, but through fear of seeming barbarian. ‘Let us be what we are!’ said Tarrik, and seemed to cast out the Greek in himself. But no one cared for him to say that; they must not have their relations with the south disturbed, they must keep their markets, the flow out of corn and flax and furs and amber, and the flow in of oil and wine and rare, precious things, the pride of their rich men, the adornment of their beautiful women—and besides, something to look to, some dream, some standard. Harn Der thought of the Greek artist his son had spoken of, made up his mind that the man should be encouraged, and considered what to buy, a present perhaps for Yellow Bull to take back with him to the marshes and his young wife, who must be lonely so far from the city and everything that makes life pleasant for women.

The Chief most likely saw that he had pleased no one again; he went back to laughter or silence. Disheartened, the Council began to break up. Then suddenly he said: ‘I must see where the secret is to hide. Yellow Bull, take me to the road.’ ‘I will, Chief!’ said Yellow Bull eagerly. But again Tarrik was laughing.

They went out. A slave came in and mopped up the spilled oil, with a timorous eye on the Chief, who still sat in his chair, still laughing a little from time to time. It began to be near evening. With the room empty and windows unshuttered, there was always a little sound of waves, light in summer and loud in winter, coming up across the road from the harbour and the stony beach.

Tarrik, whose name was also Charmantides, got up and went through the house to the women’s court, to find his aunt Eurydice, who was called Yersha by the Scythians. Her room looked partly over the sea and partly over the gardens, where there were lawns of scythed grass between great rose hedges, carved marble seats under apple trees, and narrow borders of bee-flowers and herbs round fountains and statues that came once from Hellas. But Yersha who was Eurydice sat at the other window, watching the sea. She had been copying manuscript; there was pen and ink beside her, and half a page of her slow, careful writing, and now she was quite still, beside her window. Along her walls there were chests of book rolls; above them their stories were repeated in fresco, black lines filled in softly with tints of flesh or dress—Achilles in Skyros, Iphigenia sacrificed, Phaedra and Hippolytos, Alkestis come back from the dead, horsemen with the thick, veiled beauty of a too much copied Parthenon, women with heavy eyelids and drooping hands and lapfuls of elaborate drapery, all framed in borders of crowded acanthus pattern that repeated itself again and again on the mouldings of doors and windows. The floor was of marble from Skyros, white streaked with brown and a curious green, the couches and table of citron wood and ivory, with worked silver feet. There were a few vases, light colours on a creamy ground, with palely florid borders and handles, and one or two marble groups, a swan or so, and the little winged, powerless Erotes, like mortal babies.

She turned from her sea-gazing and smiled at him. ‘Charmantides,’ she said, ‘come and talk to me. Tell me why you did it.’

‘Did—which?’

‘Just now, at the Council: laughed, dear.’

He stood beside her fingering her pen. Why had he laughed? It was gone now. Gone. He shook his head. ‘I am going to marry Erif Der,’ he said, and felt her breath and thought both check a moment before she answered.

‘I see. And that was why you were laughing? I am glad you are so happy.’

He looked down at her, standing there by the table, making ink patterns on his finger-nails with her pen, and wondered what to answer. He did not think it was happiness that made him laugh, he was not the least sure what were his feelings for Erif Der, except that he wanted to get possession of her; he knew that she was somehow dangerous.

His aunt knew that too. She went on: ‘Have you spoken to Harn Der?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘To Yellow Bull, then?’ He shook his head. ‘But surely you’ve seen someone besides the child herself?’

‘She’s not a child,’ said the Chief.

‘All the more reason, then, that she should not answer for herself. But—Charmantides —you know I have tried to be a mother to you, since your own mother died. I think you have loved me. Why did you not tell me about this before?’

He began to elaborate the patterns on his fingers interestedly. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Are you sure? Not at Plowing Eve?’

He smiled: he liked thinking of Plowing Eve. Yes, she had been the best Spring Queen whom he had ever led through the needful dance—and afterwards, how the men had enjoyed themselves. … But he had not thought of marrying her then. ‘No,’ he said truthfully, ‘it was only now.’

‘Then, if it was only now, surely you see that this is not natural, not right? Surely you know, Charmantides, the things she can do. This is magic and done for some purpose of hers or her father’s!’

‘Very likely,’ said the Chief, ‘perhaps that was why I was laughing. But I am going to marry her all the same.’

‘Why?’ said Eurydice. ‘Oh why!’

‘Because I like to,’ he said, and looked out of the window. Cloud and sunshine swept over the sea; and below him on the beach was Erif Der, standing on a bollard, her fists clenched over her breasts, looking up at the Chief’s house. Abruptly Tarrik began to laugh again. ‘I am going to see Harn Der,’ he said, and went striding out, his white felt coat swinging stiffly as he went.

As he walked along the streets of Marob, the men he passed saluted him with drawn knife at the forehead, and any girls who were armed did the same, but most of the women just lifted hand lightly to eyes, looking at him softly from under long lashes, hoping he would turn their way, the truth being that they and all the younger men liked Tarrik far better than old Harn Der and the Council, who would rule them for their good, but for no one’s pleasure. Still, it depended on little, it would come and go, and Tarrik could only be young once. He certainly enjoyed himself, and had broken very few hearts for long; most of his loves were married by now, and not at all angry with him, still looking softly even. There were several possible children, but none quite proved or at all acknowledged. At any rate Erif Der knew as much about it as anyone.

Tarrik answered the salutes and glances more or less; but he was not thinking about them. Nor, for that matter, about what he was going to do now. He was making a charming plan for killing two birds with one stone; actually, that is to say, killing one of them, and as to the other, well, Yellow Bull was an extremely worthy young man—in spite of his having such a ridiculously red, scrubby face! A knot of girls at the street corner giggled to one another with speculations as to why the Chief was laughing out loud all by himself; but this time they were wrong. He stopped at a window and called up: ‘Oh, Epigethes!’ The Greek leaned out, his face changing to suspicion and some fear when he saw it was the Chief. ‘Will you come and ride with me?’ Tarrik shouted up. ‘Down south, to see Berris Der’s brother. In three weeks? We will talk about art, Epigethes.’ There was something about this that terrified Epigethes. ‘But I shall be busy, Chief,’ he said. ‘I have been given work to do by your nobles. I am an artist, I have no time for riding.’ ‘Ah yes,’ said Tarrik, ‘but I command you. Remember you are in my country. You know,’ he went on, happily watching the Greek getting more and more frightened, ‘I am a barbarian, and if I were to lose my temper—I can take it, then, that you are coming when I am ready?’ And he walked on. Then after a few minutes he stopped and blew three times with his fingers in his mouth, making a curiously loud and unpleasant whistle. Almost at once a shock-headed man in a black coat ran up to him. ‘See that there is no ship in my harbour to take Epigethes away,’ said Tarrik, laying a finger on the man’s arm.

By the time he came to the flax market it was almost sunset; people were going home to supper. A small boy was sitting on the well curb in the middle, singing at the top of his voice and kicking his bare heels against the stone. Tarrik came and sat beside him. The boy looked round and gave a mock salute, and went on till the end of his song; then, in the same breath: ‘Are you coming to supper with us, Tarrik? You must!’

Tarrik pulled his hair, gently and affectionately: ‘Nobody asked me, Gold-fish,’ he said. ‘I want to see your father, though. And I’m going to marry your sister.’

Gold-fish slid off the curb and stared. ‘Has she magicked you?’ he asked.

‘I expect so,’ said Tarrik. ‘Does she ever magic you, Gold-fish?’

‘Can’t magic me!’ said the small boy proudly; then, truth getting the better of him, ‘At least, she won’t try. She’s horrid sometimes—I did ask her. But she wouldn’t be able. She magics Wheat-ear: easily.’

‘Will Wheat-ear do magic too, when she’s grown up?’

‘No,’ said Gold-fish, ‘she’s just plain. She’s my special sister.’

They went into Harn Der’s house together; supper was ready on the table. Erif Der and a woman-slave were lighting candles, but when she saw it was Tarrik, she bade the woman run and get the great lamp and tell her master. Meanwhile she went on lighting the candles herself, and, though her face was steady, her hands were shaking.

Harn Der came in with the lamp carried behind him; the slave went out, and then Erif Der with her little brother. ‘Harn Der,’ said Tarrik, ‘best of my councillors, I am come to ask for your daughter Erif Der to be my wife.’

For a time Harn Der said nothing. At last he spoke. ‘My son Berris told me what was in your mind. It is not a thing to be lightly thought of or spoken of. All Marob will be either better or worse for your marriage, Chief. I cannot answer alone. I have here some of the Council: with your leave, I will call them in.’

‘Call them if you like,’ said Tarrik, rapidly and crossly, ‘if you must make it an affair for Marob! But remember, I’m going to have Erif.’ Harn Der did not answer this, but went to the door and called. Ten of the Council came in, oldish men, the best and most trusted by every one; a little behind came Yellow Bull, awkwardly, playing with his sword hilt. They all had gold chains and brooches, and long cloaks of embroidery with fur borders. Tarrik thought with pleasure how hot they must be. He stood beside the table, pinching one of the candles; the warm, sweet wax gave, half reluctantly, under the pressure of his fingers, and he thought of Erif Der. ‘None of you will oppose my marriage?’ he asked, with a kind of growl at them.

One of the older men spoke: ‘The marriage of the Chief should be a matter for the full Council.’

‘The full Council can pretend to give me leave tomorrow,’ said Tarrik; ‘meanwhile, I want it settled. When shall I have Erif Der?’

The elders coughed and fidgeted. Why should their Chief treat them like this? Yellow Bull flushed angrily. Harn Der spoke with a certain impressiveness: ‘If the Council see fit, my eldest daughter shall be the Chief’s wife. I cannot think that there is anything against her in blood or in person.’ The others assented. He went on: ‘But it would be less than right if this were not well considered or in any way gone into hurriedly. Let us not speak of marriage until autumn.’

‘Autumn!’ said Tarrik. ‘Six months! I want a wife and you tell me to wait till she is an old woman!’ He banged his hand so hard down on to the table that one of the candles fell over, and looked round savagely at the Council. ‘None of you remember what it was like being a man; but I am a man and I am asking for my woman!’

‘Gently, gently,’ said one of them. ‘Remember, Tarrik, we are not powerless. You cannot be Chief alone. Harn Der, she is your daughter—what do you say?’

‘She is fully young yet,’ said Harn Der; ‘she must make her wedding-dress first. Let the betrothal be when the Council wills. In summer we must all go to our lands, she with me to mine; after harvest—may all go well with it!—we will have the marriage.’

He looked hard at Tarrik, and Tarrik back at him. ‘What does she say?’ asked Tarrik.

‘It is not for her to speak. Tomorrow the Council will find you a lucky day for your betrothal.’

Tarrik walked straight to the inner door and called: ‘Erif Der!’ After a moment she came, her eyes on the ground. She had changed her dress; the new one was made of some fine, Greek stuff, a very delicate, silvery linen web, crossed again and again with dozens of colours, yellows and blues and greens, and sometimes a metal thread, copper or gold, that held the blink of the candles. It stood out lightly all round her; her plaits hung forward from her bent head into the hollow of her breasts; her coat was of white fur, very short. She went and stood between Harn Der and Yellow Bull; just once she looked at Tarrik, a glance so quick that no one but he saw it. ‘Are you going to marry me when I choose?’ he said. ‘Erif Der, answer me!’

But her voice was little more than a murmur. ‘I will do what my father chooses, Chief,’ she said. And the Council nodded and whispered to one another: she was a good girl, as they would wish their own daughters to be; there was nothing odd about her.

‘Very well,’ said Tarrik, ‘I’ll let you win—this time! I thank you for allowing me to be your Chief still!’ And he turned and went out into the sea-damp evening.

Harn Der wondered why he had said just that last thing; it was queer. … But no one else had noticed particularly; the Chief was always bad to deal with when he was crossed. Some of them stayed on for supper with Harn Der; they spoke of the marriage, hoped that the Chief might grow less wild, saying he was worse than a wild-cat to deal with now and would some day bring harm to Marob. And then they praised Erif Der for looks and modesty, and she waited on them and made little magics over their food and drink, and was amused to see one trying to shake out of his glass a spider that was not there, and another startled at his butter turning pink. When they were all gone, she and Berris went out too, and left her father and eldest brother together. ‘I did that very well,’ said Harn Der. ‘I was not so ready that anyone might think there could be a plan, and not so cautious that they might remember it against me when he is not Chief any longer.’

‘But what will happen to him?’ said Yellow Bull. ‘Will he be magicked enough not to care whether he is Chief or not? Otherwise he will be dangerous.’

‘Ah,’ said Harn Der, ‘I have been thinking that too. Well, we shall see—alive or dead.’

‘Yes,’ said Yellow Bull again. ‘I know you don’t quite believe in what you tell Berris; but still—he did promise to come and see my road.’