Rage and regret dripped from her hull, as potent and tangible as the water that drained from her deck. Jason stepped forward. He pushed me roughly aside. He was being summoned. I risked a moment of eavesdropping and heard the harsh, hoarse voice of the ship, mournfully bidding him aboard. The rest of us were discouraged from approaching, and Jason alone entered Argo, passing into the Spirit of the Ship.
He appeared a while later, ashen and haunted, in a very bad mood. He called out, “The others are here. Wet, but alive. Time to sail. Push this rank old barge off from the beach.”
We did as we were told, using brute strength and what ropes we could find, to drag the ship back into the ocean. Once we were all aboard, Argo turned her bow to the middle of nowhere and caught a current that only she could sense. She crossed the sea and eventually entered the channel of a river.
Now oars were pushed through, backs put into action, and we struck the ship out of the underworld and into the centre of the island.
Chapter Nineteen
Ephemera
Later, we emerged from the gloom as if from a dream, finding ourselves suddenly surrounded by mountains. The sun was bright. A colourful city sprawled away from us on each side of the river. There was not just fragrance in the air, and the passing sour whiff of tanning leather, but sound. The sound of life. The noise of bustling activity and the sharp cries of curiosity as a small crowd gathered to stare in amused confusion at our vessel, our Argo, as she banged and butted against the quay, while Rubobostes and the Greekland mariners struggled to find mooring ropes and hold the old ship still.
“Much more like it,” Urtha approved, looking round. “A civilised town at last! A place I can understand.”
This was indeed a wonderful place. High-decked barges drifted past us, their crews watching us cautiously; smaller boats were rowed not to the beat of drums but to the rhythmic blast of small bronze horns. Narrow-necked pithoi were stacked on the quays. Crates of fruit were being hauled on carts pulled by oxen. Dark-coated goats bleated as they were herded into pens; away from the harbour and somewhere behind the purple-and-rose-coloured houses a festival was taking place. The jangle of tambourines punctuated the severe thump of a drumbeat with accompanying wailing horns. Occasionally there were cheers. Occasionally groans. Sometimes a scream.
Light sparkled on the hills around, and by looking carefully we could make out processions of children, all dressed in white tunics, all carrying small reflective shields. They wove their way along the paths, higher and higher towards the sky.
“Where is this shit-hole?” Jason suddenly shouted. He was in a foul mood. “Where have we come? Does anybody know?”
Tairon turned to him and called, “Yes. Home.”
“Whose home?”
“My home!” bellowed the Cretan, but he grinned as Jason frowned.
“You were born here? In this beautiful city?” Urtha asked. Compared with the muddy, forge-ringing, fire-burning chaos of Taurovinda, I could see why he was impressed.
“Right there,” said Tairon, pointing into the press of buildings. “In the Street of the Bee.”
The name, once they understood it, had Urtha’s uthiin roaring with laughter. They discussed briefly possible names for some of the streets of their own city; nothing was quite so delicate.
Tairon ignored them. He stared into the distance for a few moments, absorbing the colour and confusion, then cast me a glance. “It hasn’t changed much. I wonder how long I’ve been gone.”
“Easy enough to find out.”
While Jason negotiated mooring fees with the bureaucratic entourage who had appeared almost as soon as we’d reached the quays, Tairon and I walked into the town. The noise of the festival grew louder, the sense of gaiety more intense. I asked Tairon what the festival might have been, and he looked uncomfortable.
“I’m not sure. But if it’s what I think it is, best not to go there.”
In fact, he left me for a while to go to the area of the celebration. When he came back, he immediately beckoned me back towards the Street of the Bee, continuing our exploration.
“Well? The festival?”
“Do you have a strong stomach?”
“Yes. Usually.”
He told me what was happening in the ring. It wasn’t particularly festive. As the crowd groaned, then broke into a magnificent roar of pleasure, I thought of the cruelty of populations, but also of the kindness of a man like Tairon who wished to spare me outrages.
He was a quiet and deep man; he was, of course, a lost man. But here he was, home again, and he exuded anxiety and nerves like a child awaiting punishment. The city was so familiar to him that it must have felt as if he’d traversed the ages, coming back to the place at the true time of his childhood.
And that indeed is almost what had happened.
A familiar voice shouted my name from behind us. I sighed and turned, and Niiv came gasping up to us, but smiling. She had somehow found a loose dress, coloured green and decorated with leaping dolphins. I suspected she had stolen it from the market.
“Isn’t this a wonderful place?” she enthused. “Just breathe that air!”
She was right.
We had passed into the honey quarter—the scent was intense, the different flowers and herbs with which the liquid honey was being aromatised caused a heady sensation. There was much incense in the brew, I suspected.
We walked on and came to a small square. Here, Tairon pointed with astonishment to an old man sitting quietly in the shade of a chestnut tree. The man was blind, and one arm was cut off at the elbow. He held a strange stringed instrument in the surviving hand, and his thumb occasionally stroked the strings, making a meaningful and melancholy tune.
“By the Bull! I know that man. Thalofonus. A freed slave. He was once a fine musician. The king did that to him, took away his playing hand, because he once sang an inappropriate song. It was shortly after the trial when I was tested in the labyrinth for the first time, before I became lost in the maze. I was here, in this place, this street, just a few years ago, then.”
What are you up to, Argo? I thought to myself.
Tairon went over to Thalofonus and took the man’s hand, whispering something in his ear. Thalofonus seemed to hesitate for a moment, then brighten and reach up to touch Tairon’s cheek. He whispered something back. Tairon kissed the old man’s hand, strummed the strings playfully, then came back to me. He was puzzled, but bright-eyed with anticipation.
“My mother is still alive, it seems. Still alive!” Then he frowned. “This will be difficult. You should wait here, the two of you.”
“If that’s what you want, then of course I’ll wait here. But I’d rather come with you. I shan’t interfere.”
“Nor will I,” Niiv promised.
Tairon thought for a moment, then nodded. “Come on, then.”
But as we walked away from the small square, a youth, naked but for the stubs of bull’s horn tied about his head, his belly and back blackened with dye, came racing past us, breathless and terrified, truly terrified. He flung himself against the wall of a house as he saw us, eyes wild and gleaming, lips slack as he gasped for breath. He edged past us cautiously, then broke into a run again. Sweat sprayed from him as he moved; the stink of his bowels lingered long after he had disappeared.
Somewhere, a few streets away, several tambourines were shaken for a few moments, then fell silent, to be replaced by the whispering of human voices.
Tairon had watched this, and listened to the sounds, in silence. Now he started to walk quickly, pointing up the street, to a house painted green and blue and decorated with the images of octopi and nymphlike sea sirens.
“That’s my mother’s house. I was born there. It has a large garden, and a deep cellar. My father was confined there for the season after my birth. The whole place is bigger than it seems. My family are—were—wealthy in wool and hives.”
Niiv was astonished. “Your father was confined after your birth? Why?”
I
tried to silence the girl, but Tairon was in an understanding mood. “All creatures, when born, are the gifts of Lady of Wild Creatures. She dictates their time; she dictates their numbers; she attaches life-force, or death-force, according to her whim. Whenever a male child is born, we placate Lady of Wild Creatures by confining the father for a season. He is gardened and fed, fed and gardened by Lady’s servants. Three are assigned to a house where the male child is born.”
“You can garden a man?” Niiv asked.
Tairon and I stared at the girl. Tairon said, “For the seeds. For Lady.”
Niiv looked between us then smiled nervously. “Oh yes. I see.”
There was no time to indulge her. Tairon had walked to the shuttered door and was touching the wood with his fingers, shaping words in the air, finally touching two hands to his heart, then opening the door and peering into the interior. He beckoned me to follow.
The outer door led into a cool receiving area, a light-well filling the space, which was furnished with empty pots and a small shrine with the clay figure of a goddess, her arms raised up, each hand clutching a serpent. Lady of the Threshold.
A tall wooden door, more screen than door, opened into a courtyard lush with greenery, stifling and still. Two women in vibrant red-and-blue-patterned skirts; short, black open jackets drawn tightly around rouged breasts; and high hats coiled about with strings of shells rose from where they were sitting and came towards us. One was younger than the other, but one was certainly the mother and the other the daughter. “This is the house of Artemenesia.”
“I am Artemenesia’s son,” Tairon replied.
“Impossible,” the older woman stated strongly. “Tairon entered the labyrinth at Canaeente and was drawn away forever. He was twelve years old. If he had survived, he would have returned through the earth mouth at Diktaea within the year. He is long lost, long dead. Drawn far away.” She appraised Tairon with suspicion in her hard-set face. The younger woman seemed nervous.
“He was,” Tairon responded, “drawn far away. Everything you say is true. Something has drawn me back. Is my mother willing to receive me?”
There was a brief glance between the women, an uncomfortable and insecure look. Then the younger one said, “Your mother is with the honey children.”
Tairon seemed to sag a little. After a long moment he asked, “Am I too late?”
Again, there seemed to be confusion between the two assistants to Artemenesia. The younger woman was dispatched across the courtyard, running to the cloisters and disappearing into the shadows.
Tairon was all gloom.
“Is she dead?” I asked him.
“It seems so. I am just too late. And the strange thing is: I didn’t even know I had the opportunity to be here. Someone is laughing at me, Merlin.”
His dejection was profound, but he braced up and looked about him, remembering this old home of his. A small bird, some sort of finch, was hopping about on a fig tree. I harnessed it quickly and flew it into the far chamber, where Artemenesia was with her honey children.
What a strange sight greeted my small bird eyes!
Artemenesia, very old and naked, lay spread-eagled on a bed of lamb’s wool. Her body was opened in many places, small cuts with cane tubes pressed into them. The children were filling the carcases with honey. They were all boys, tiny lads with blue hair and oddly swollen heads. Their limbs were as thin as sticks, and they scrambled around, scooping liquid honey from clay jars, a bustle of activity in the name of preservation.
Artemenesia shifted slightly, sighed softly. The younger lady was whispering to her. The children seemed irritated by the woman’s intrusion. There were ten children, but their faces were drawn and skull-like, I noticed, though the eyes were bright.
They were very argumentative. They all kept dipping fingers into the honey and eating it. Sugar gave them the rage and the active limbs to make the room spin dizzily with their constant fussing at the old woman’s body.
When Artemenesia slowly sat up, these honey killers scattered, complaining loudly, “Not finished. Not finished.”
“Finish later,” the woman said.
Honey oozed from her wounds.
She was cloaked, covered, made ready to receive her son.
The finch hopped away. No one had noticed me.
Niiv was made to stay in the courtyard. Tairon and I were ushered into a small, fresh receiving room. There were three small couches, some fragrant flowers, a dish of sparkling water, a single window through which the sunlight illuminated the image of Lady of Wild Creatures, constructed out of mosaic tiles on the floor, and coloured green.
Artemenesia sat hunched on one of the couches. Tairon and I occupied the others.
The woman stared at her son for a long time, then asked, “If you are Tairon, then you’ll know who caught the apple.”
“My sister. It fell out of nowhere. She ate it at once. That was the last we saw of her.”
“Which branch broke?”
“The third. It was too small for the small weight of the boy who lay on it.”
“Who caught the boy?”
“You caught the boy. The branch cut your cheek. That cut, the cut I can see below your ear.”
Artemenesia sighed and shook her head, never taking her gaze from the man. “Tairon,” she whispered, repeating the name. And after a while, “What made you stay away so long?”
“I took a wrong turning,” he said sadly, looking down and sighing. “When the rock closed behind me, I was terrified. But fear made me learn the maze. I found exits to the world, and entrances for the return. Eventually I found a way home.”
“Tairon,” the old woman whispered again. “At least I have the pleasure of seeing you for a few moments before Lady leads me into the hills, to the forest, and turns me free and wild.”
There was something very heavy, very difficult in the air. I realised suddenly it was the feeling of repressed tears. Mother and son watched each other with affection, but from a distance. Tairon’s lips quivered, his brow furrowed, but he remained steady.
“I’ve caught you in time to stop you dying. You can get rid of those embalmers.”
Artemenesia shook her head. “I wish that were true, Tairon. I’m sorry. You’ve come a few minutes too late. But for as long as you’re here, we can talk.” She looked at me, searched my face with her gaze, then seemed to recognise me.
“This is Merlin,” Tairon said quietly. “He wanders, he’s wise, he has a gift with spells, enchantment, charm; he even understands labyrinths. Or so he tells me.”
“I see you, but I don’t see you,” the woman said. “You’re dead. Yet alive. I see you as bones, not flesh. But you have a nice smile. Is my son happy?”
For a moment her words had taken me surprise. Tairon seemed to be unaware of what had passed between Artemenesia and myself. I grasped it at once, of course, well … just as soon as I’d glimpsed the fact that she was in fact dead, and still in that short shadow time between death and parting, when the breath has not yet gone stale.
“This moment will mean a lot to him,” I said. Tairon glanced at me, frowning. I ignored him. Artemenesia smiled. I went on, “As he said, he took a wrong turning. He has found himself among friends, new friends. His life is as dangerous as it is fulfilling. When he comes back to his home, he will be a stranger. But—”
“All strangers can settle,” the woman finished for me, as she saw me hesitating. “I was a stranger here once. I know about strangers. I know about the struggle to make the land embrace you. Tairon will settle. I hope you’ll help him.”
I had to be honest with the dead woman. “I’ll help until I have to leave, which won’t be long. There is something waiting for me in the years to come. I’m not allowed to know what.…”
“Are you curious about it?”
“I’m terrified at times.”
“You deny it.”
“I have to. If I embraced it, Tairon would pass through my life in the blink of an eye.”
“I’ve heard of people like you. I never believed you existed. You are a trail-walker. You circle the world and shed lives like skins.”
“Yes. How do you recognise me?”
“One of you walked through this land and left a skin behind. That was a long time ago. But the story is remembered. My son will ask me a question now. And I will answer it. I will tell him what I know, and he can explain to you later.”
I understood what she was hinting.
“You want me to go.”
“I would ask that you go. I have only a few heartbeats left with which to remember, a few heartbeats to give Tairon a memory that will sustain him. Lady of Wild Creatures is at the head of the valley, and she is impatient. Everything that has happened here is to do with her, and her anger. But still, I can’t deny her. Wild Creature Lady thinks she has gained the island. The war has been difficult and destructive. You cannot see it, but you can surely sense it, smell it, hear it. These have been dreadful and terrifying years. The Daidalon is gone. Stolen. It was taken by pirates. Tairon is here because he has been sent—or rather, brought here.”
“By whom?”
“By one who wishes the truth to be known.”
“And how do you know all this?”
She laughed. “I have a foot in both worlds. Don’t you? It is a brief moment of enlightened vision. A vision of magic.”
* * *
Tairon’s mother was in what the Greeklanders called the ephemera. This was the transition from life to death, a short period of time, a day, perhaps two, when she was shifting between this world and the deep valley that descended to the branching caverns of Hades, to the sanctuary of Poseidon, where she would be required to undertake the tests of time: to choose which world she entered next, or to be chosen against her will.
The ephemera was her time of practise, her time of preparation. The body was dead, but her life, her shade, could transit instantly across the gleam of the eyes, as long as the eyes were open.
The Broken Kings Page 20
