‘Yes,’ said Tarrik, twisting a pen between his fingers until it broke, ‘and what then?’
‘If you have time and will listen,’ said Sphaeros, ‘I will try to explain.’ Then he showed Tarrik how it all hung together, this fear of unreality and a rushing on nowhither without reason, and uncertainty, and unfulfilled desire for happiness that in itself is unobtainable; and he showed how man’s will may be weaned from desire and folly, and made to go the way of nature, of things-as-they-are, not crossing the purpose of life, but going always with that reason that governs the movements of the stars and all the universe—through your own helping making yourself one with God.
‘Yes,’ said Tarrik suddenly, ‘that is how I help the sun to grow the corn!’
Then Sphaeros spoke of the wills of kings, and how they, above all, should follow the good; and he talked of choice and duty, and the ways that are always open before any action. And he told Tarrik stories of kings, the wise and the unwise, and what came to their kingdoms. So they went on, day after day.
Tarrik found he was quite able to split himself into two people; one a Greek, who was an interested, if not always consistent, Stoic, with a vast amount of moral and philosophic curiosity which had never been satisfied before; and the other a barbarian god-king, who made the flax and wheat grow in a very small place called Marob, which nobody had ever heard of except wholesale merchants and ships’ captains, whose beginnings had been odd and dubious and something to do with his dead father and a ceremonial feast, and whose end was better unthought of for the moment. This was all very amusing. But Tarrik was distinctly aware of Harn Der and the possibilities of something unpleasant. However he was fairly clear that his luck was back now—if all went well at Plowing Eve. And he had given orders to his guard, whom he knew to be faithful, to follow not too far behind when he went out. If it came to anything open, he backed himself against Harn Der and half the Council. As to Erif— well, she was queer and unanswering nowadays. He began to look about for something better, but only half-heartedly; for the moment his mind was not on women.
And then a small trading-ship came into harbour. She was a squat, patch-sailed creature, that every one knew; she used to trade up and down the coast, even in winter, from one small harbour to another, never getting far out, or taking risks. She was going south now, and would probably fetch up at Byzantium in about a month if the weather was possible. Sphaeros said: ‘I must go.’ And he went down to arrange with the captain.
Tarrik knew not only that Sphaeros must go, but also that he would. He did not say anything at once, nor did he follow his first impulse—to have the captain strangled quietly, or the ship sunk. He considered what was the Good, and when Sphaeros came back from the harbour he said: ‘I think I might go to Hellas again.’
‘Why?’ said Sphaeros.
‘In case there are more men like you,’ said Tarrik, and the philosopher, in spite of himself, felt a curious glow of pleasure at the way of Nature here.
‘But how can you leave your kingdom and your people, Charmantides?’ he asked.
The Chief seemed to think it not too difficult. ‘I shall give my powers to two others,’ he said; ‘the power over my people to one, and the power over seed-time and growing-time to a second. And I shall be back by summer. I want—’ he said, suddenly shy and looking away from Sphaeros, ‘I want to see Kleomenes and Sparta!’
Sphaeros nodded. ‘It could be done,’ he said, ‘but— think it over. Be sure of what you are doing, and do not be led by appearances or any sort of pride. I do not know if the Hellenes you make pictures of are even like the real Hellenes. I do not even know what Kleomenes is like now he is a man.’ And Sphaeros sighed, with the knowledge that, whatever he was like, it would not be the eager-minded, strong boy he had said good-bye to that day in Sparta.
Tarrik had gone back to his old habit of talking things over with his aunt. Erif had been very good to talk to at first, but lately she had only made him feel a stranger, alone with her. He went to Eurydice’s room now, and sat down beside her on a cushion; she stroked his hair and wanted to kiss him, but thought he might not like it much. He looked up at her. ‘You’re tired,’ he said; ‘your eyes—you can’t have slept!’
She was so pleased to think he was noticing her looks again! ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she said; ‘I have not been sleeping well, that’s all.’
‘Why not?’ said Tarrik. ‘Would you like more music? Shall we see if anyone has a daughter who can sing?’ He brightened up at the thought, and Eurydice smiled inside herself—or rather would have smiled but for this pricking, pinching feeling that had lasted over from her dream. There was something very unpleasant about the dream; she could not quite remember what; it seemed—ridiculous!—as if it had been about two-legged pins walking all over her, hairpins in fact. She shook it off; she was too old to have idiotic fancies. What was Charmantides saying now? ‘So you see, aunt dear, I think it would be a reasonable thing to go.’
Reasonable! What long words the boy used nowadays!
‘Yes,’ she said; ‘I have been wondering if this was what has been going on in your head these last days.’ And that was true; she had wondered.
‘It would be for six or seven months,’ he said; ‘till midsummer (may all go well with it!) and then—I shall be satisfied.’
‘Hellas!’ she sighed, and then, ‘dear, shall I come with you?’
‘No,’ he said; ‘not in winter. Perhaps—in spring, if you wanted to. Yes. You might like to join me then.’
‘Spring on those hills!’ she said, flushing a little. And then came another idea: ‘Only—someone must take care of things when you are gone. Well, I must do that; it will be just like when you were a little boy, Charmantides!’
‘Yes; but remember, Aunt Eurydice, I am not sure yet if it would be good. I must be clear it is not my own desires—oh, I must talk to Sphaeros again!’ He jumped up and went out again, and walked up and down the garden, trying to make up his mind. Only he found that a big bough had fallen off the elm at the end, and this made a new way of climbing up—so he did climb up. And the serious course of his thought was somewhat broken.
He did think of consulting Erif that night. But she put it right out of his head. He found that she had made one of the guards bring in five crabs from the beach, and they were all in a ring on the floor, with the hungry, attentive look crabs always have, and they seemed to be watching her doing a dance for them in the middle of the room. He liked watching her dancing as well, so he sat down between two of the crabs, and waited very happily till she was finished with the first part of her dance, and, ignoring the original audience, began another for him. Very soon it was with him as well as for him, so much so that he felt it would be a waste to look for a new girl yet. He wondered just a little why she was so particularly delighted with herself, but he had better games to play with her that night than wondering, or even serious conversation.
But Eurydice was having bad dreams again, a very nasty, tangled kind, with hairpins walking accurately across them. ‘Apphé,’ she said, ‘what can the matter be? I can’t think!’ Apphé, who was arranging a scarf across her shoulders, looked round crookedly and caught her mistress’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Can’t you, my lady?’ she said; ‘I can. …’ Eurydice shifted and gave a little gasp: ‘Of course. And I never guessed. Well, Apphé, this time—I’ve come to the end of my patience. These tricks …’ She twitched her dress down impatiently, looked critically at herself in the mirror, and beckoned to the maid to follow her out and across the Chief’s house to Erif Der’s big, yellow-walled room at the other side.
Erif Der was still in bed, lying with one arm under her cheek, and poking the torpid crabs. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I wanted someone to take my crabs home. Will you tell Apphé to carry them down to the beach carefully, Aunt Eurydice?’
For half a minute there was an uncomfortable trickle of silence through the room: then Eurydice deliberately picked up one of the crabs and threw it against the wall: it was th
e smallest of them, and it was broken to bits. ‘So,’ she said.
Erif Der sat up suddenly, her face crimson with rage; she looked like a small child in her short, blue shift. ‘You—you—’ she gasped, ‘get out of my room!’ She picked up Tarrik’s dagger and held it with the hilt against her own breast and the point at Eurydice’s; then she got off her bed and moved forward.
‘Take care!’ said Eurydice sharply, ‘you little savage!’
Erif Der looked at the remains of the crab, and then across at the other woman. ‘How did you sleep last night?’ she asked.
‘You admit it, then!’ said Eurydice. ‘I thought so! Listen: Charmantides knows. He is sick of you. He is going away, and while he is gone I shall take his place. And I shall teach you yours.’
They were nearly at the door now, Erif Der still coming on with the dagger. ‘He is not going!’ she cried.
Eurydice turned and looked very bitterly at the girl. ‘Ask him,’ she said.
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, rathe
r 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.’
The Corn King and the Spring Queen Page 11
