The Corn King and the Spring Queen

by Naomi Mitchison

  Philylla had been standing by, horrified and inadequate. She went over to Berris and touched his hand. At the touch he collapsed on to his knees at her feet and began sobbing and whispering frantically his sister’s name. She began to stroke his shoulder with little dry touches. ‘Poor Berris,’ she said. ‘Oh poor, poor Berris!’ But he did not notice her at all.

  Then the Queen and Panteus came up towards them. They watched her for a moment, then Agiatis beckoned. She left Berris and went over to them. She came up to the Queen’s shoulder now, and she was still growing fast. Berris did not move. ‘Poor boy!’ said the Queen, and squeezed Philylla’s hand. Then she asked where the other had gone. Philylla pointed up the twisting path, and saw Panteus look quickly at the Queen. ‘Yes,’ she said, and then to Philylla, ‘that was the path King Agis took when he went up into the mountains and came down to me in the morning with the idea of the New Times in his head. That was the path.’

  Chapter Five

  AS THE PATH WENT almost steadily uphill, Tarrik’s running settled down into a gusty walk. Night fell entirely and he bruised his feet on stones and tore his hands on bushes. Ahead of him always was the mountain wall in different shades of darkness. He did not look behind him to see the widening horizon, the greater space of sky. For a time the physical effort of his running drove thought out of his mind, and he was almost happy. Then thought and images crept persistently back, bringing with them so dreadful a grief and longing, and such darkening of the spirit that if there had been a precipice in front of him he would not have hesitated to step over it. He beat his hands against his face, he kept on hearing his aunt’s voice, telling him, so kindly. Yet that was more bearable than hearing Erif’s voice saying good-bye to him, as he did if he listened more inwardly still; for now he could detect all sorts of tones of longing and unhappiness in it; he was desperate that he could never now alter that.

  By and bye the path disappeared altogether; he crossed a ridge with boulders and deep, dampish hollows between them; when he stumbled his fingers felt flower stems. He dipped into a hollow of utter blackness, then came up again, sometimes through scrub and sometimes over scree or bare rock. It was much colder. He got up to the level where snow had been earlier that year. He wanted the night never to end; he could not bear that dawn should come, light and beauty, without her; and the night seemed to be going on. Now by the queer gusts of chilly air that came blowing along the hollows, and by the sight of the jagged top against the stars, he felt he had come very high, out of reach of the valley. He had never been up a mountain before; it seemed to him that Hellas lay well below him now, left behind. His legs and back ached. Suddenly he lay down and slept for about half an hour without dreaming.

  He woke out of peace to abrupt and shocking realisation of what had happened. Before he could put up any guards, his mind and heart received the full impression, and he sat up and yelled at the echoing cliffs with rage and misery. His hands tore at his hair, at his coat, pulled at the neck of his shirt. He was a wild beast. Then something very odd happened. For he felt a spot of warmth on his breast and he looked down, and there, under his torn shirt, was the star glowing with the same light it used to have before he came to Hellas.

  Then he leapt on to his feet and shouted and shouted her name. ‘Erif! Erif!’ he shouted, and the rocks echoed and the stars quivered and the wide night lay unchanging round the mountain tops and the Corn King of Marob felt himself filled with magic and godhead again. So, shouting or silent, he climbed again through the night and the coming of dawn, and when the sun was up he was on a very high col between two peaks, and there were odd mountain lilies growing all round, and he could see eastwards to a broad rim of sea, silver and dazzling and unreal, but growing bluer and realer every moment as it dipped away from the sun.

  Berris Der went back to the house. At first he avoided Eurydice, but yet, after a short time, the longing to know grew stronger than this pain of seeing her and hearing the thing definitely. She had come by ship to Gytheum, as they had, with a very presentable following, all of whom she had put into more or less Greek dress. She did not very much want to see Berris. She did not at all want to see him! All the same she had to. It was made easier by the fact that when she told him in detail about his sister’s death, he merely cried and asked no questions. She was distressed about Tarrik; she had not thought that after this long absence without witchcraft working on him, and for the matter of that after his wife’s dubious conduct in autumn, her nephew would mind so much. Now he had run off, the gods alone knew where, without even waiting to hear her other news or to ask why, when he had appointed her Chief in his place, she should have left Marob.

  Berris found out later that day and the next morning from some of the others; though, being Yersha’s people, they had no particular liking for him. But gradually he discovered that what had happened was that the Council of Marob had got thoroughly bored with Yersha, and about the beginning of spring had said so, refused to obey her any longer, and appointed Harn Der Chief. Yellow Bull was already Corn King by Tarrik’s appointment. He had gone through the ceremonies at Plowing Eve with his sister, Erif Der, for it was still she, and not Essro, who was Spring Queen, and every one was satisfied. The weather had not been very good afterwards, though it might be better later in the year. That was about as far as Berris Der got. Yersha’s people had orders not to tell him certain important facts about his sister. All he could gather was that she had gradually got ill, with bouts of mild fever, and at last died just before they left. This would account for the bad weather in spring.

  Berris heard this and drifted off. He could not imagine Marob without his sister; he did not care about the crops. He did not even pay much attention to his father being Chief. Harn Der usually got what he wanted. He began to draw and for a time managed to forget. He was not satisfied with his drawings. Abruptly it appeared to him that he was drawing very badly, and that all his ideas were other people’s. Then there was nothing to do.

  Tarrik came down from the hills in the evening. He appeared suddenly in his aunt’s room. He said: ‘Are you sure?’ And Eurydice answered that she was sure indeed. Then he asked for the rest of the news and listened to it in silence, not seeming much surprised or altogether attentive. He said: ‘So Harn Der thinks he is to be Chief now. That’s stupid of him. How soon before you left did she die?’

  ‘She was only just dead, my dear boy. Then—I was forced out. I could see to nothing; they scarcely gave me time to get my things together. We shall come back, though—and meet force with force. And, Charmantides’—she laid a hand on his arm and looked into his eyes—‘are you grieving much for Harn Der’s daughter?’

  ‘No,’ said Tarrik.

  A weight seemed to lift from her. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘that after you were gone she played her wicked tricks on me? She was more of a witch than you ever knew. Charmantides, my dear, you must marry again; some pure, good Greek girl whom we shall be able to trust. You do not mind my saying this?’

  ‘No,’ said Tarrik again. Then he went and found Berris. He said: ‘Well, Berris, did you know your father wanted to be Chief?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Berris, not bothering about it.

  ‘I knew too,’ said Tarrik, ‘and I suppose she did. Now listen, Berris: we shall fight one more battle for King Kleomenes and see if he will talk about the right ways of government even once. Then I am going back to Marob in time for harvest, and perhaps in time for midsummer, and, as your father is Chief, I suppose you will go too.’

  All Berris said was: ‘Will you wear mourning for her, Tarrik?’

  And for the third time Tarrik said ‘No.’

  Berris looked at him and said: ‘What happened when you were on the mountains, Tarrik?’

  But the Corn King could not or would not answer. He sat alone in the room and Berris went out and wandered about the city, walking in the full sun till his head ached.

  Philylla saw him go out; she watched him from the end window of the long store-room, where
she had gone to fetch more flax for the looms. She would like to have said something, but she could not think what. This that had happened to him was beyond her experience. Deinicha, running up to see why the flax was being so long, caught her at it and asked if she was falling properly in love at last and wasn’t it nice. She felt quite sympathetic. Philylla said rather angrily: ‘Can’t I look out of the window without you all thinking I’m in love!’

  ‘Not with that face!’ said Deinicha. ‘Did he wave his hand nicely?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t!’

  ‘Oh bad, unkind Panteus not to wave his hand at poor little Philylla!’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t Panteus I was looking at, so there!’ said Philylla and began picking up the bundles of dyed flax, leaving Deinicha very much regretting that she hadn’t peeped quick at the beginning to see who it was, and also astonished at the baby Philylla having already acquired two strings to her bow.

  On their way down they met the King’s mother Kratesik-leia, and the man whom she had married for the sake of the State—to bring him into the right ways of thinking—Megistonous, a grave soldier, thickly bearded. His only son had been killed in an earlier battle against the League; he was an extra but rather sad grandfather to the King’s children. Philylla, rather unreasonably, did not like him much; he seemed to her to be out of the picture and a bore.

  He had only ridden down to Sparta for a couple of days; then he went back to the northern fort, Orchomenos, which he was holding against any possible attack. This time the Marob people went back with him, and Eurydice hired a house for herself and lived there in a curious state of happiness, refusing to think of the outer world and her life of so many years, and gradually getting to know a number of rich and elegant Greek ladies, and absorbing herself into their lives and tastes and ways of thought. She had, of course, brought her maid Apphé with her, but somehow she felt she did not want to see so much of her now, so she got herself other maids with new ideas about dress and manners, who did not remind her by voice or gesture of anything unpleasant, which was now over and should be suitably forgotten. And Apphé had a nice long rest.

  Sphaeros managed to evade her almost entirely. He spent most of his time with the King and the dozen other chosen ones, working out plans and trying to show them all how these plans might or might not fit into the Stoic scheme of life. None of the others had such a grasp of abstract things as the King, except perhaps that queer, nervous creature Therykion, to whom no philosophy brought any calmness of spirit. There was much that Panteus was in a way too happy to understand fully; he was country bred and he had not the scepticism about appearances that comes more naturally to someone who had been brought up in a complicated place with pictures and literature. All the same, if ever the thing should happen which would wake him fully to life and show him that everything could not possibly be done either simply or happily, then he might be able to think. As for Eukleidas, the King’s young brother, he listened and understood up to a point but not beyond; when they were boys, Sphaeros had thought there was little to choose between them, but since then Eukleidas had dropped behind.

  Philylla heard as soon as anyone about the defeat at Orchomenos. She was playing marbles with the King’s children on the earth terrace outside the house which had small, decorated flower-pots set regularly all along its edge. Nikomedes, the eldest, was a good shot; sometimes he beat Philylla when they both rolled their marbles against a chalk mark on the same flower-pot; he had made some tiny wooden bridges for them to go through, as well. The little one, Nikolaos—Victory for the People—was playing, too, and cheating firmly and openly, so that even his brother had to laugh. As for the baby girl, who was called Gorgo, after a remote and famous princess of her line, she tumbled about and grabbed the boys’ marbles; but Philylla didn’t mind because she rather loved picking her up, fat and fierce and wriggling, and running away with her to the other end of the terrace. Kratesikleia, their grandmother, sat in the shade writing a letter on her knee, which was to be taken to her husband at Orchomenos.

  The day before, Philylla had taken her courage in both hands and asked her mother about those other three children who had not been allowed to grow up. She felt as if she did not know her mother at all, and it had been a difficult thing to talk about; even now she only knew the bare facts. There had been two girls born after herself, both of whom had disappeared; but the third one had been kept. Then came the hoped-for boy. Another girl, born after Dontas, had not, of course, been wanted. If there had been a second boy he would have been kept too. It was bad luck having so many girls; it was bad luck, really, having so many children at all. Most women, however much they were married, only had one or two; their bodies seemed to know what was wanted of them. Had it been like that in old days? Well, perhaps not. Perhaps this was because aristocrats always married inside their own state, their own cousins usually. It was the only thing to do. But Philylla would remember that racehorses and dogs, when they were bred much together, tended to be less fertile. It was a good thing.

  Philylla had been rather frightened. She hated being frightened. It was too difficult even to try and realise what her mother had felt; she was talking calmly enough about it now. It was the usual course to take. One was spared a great deal of trouble. It was, of course, better for the others—better for Philylla! That was dreadful. If she had children herself—suddenly she wondered whether the New Times, breaking up the great estates, making less distinction between rich and poor, would make a difference. If so, which way? If the New Times came before she was married she would have less dowry to bring her husband—or none at all? She wondered if Panteus would be her children’s father. She would like a child, but the father was not so interesting. It would be rather nice if it was Panteus. She would be that much nearer Agiatis and the King—for always and always!

  She knelt, with finger and thumb now intent on the game; the marble rolled, span along the earth, went slower, hit with a satisfying little jerk against the flower-pot. She was pleased. Of course she knew she was an older person playing with the children, but still she did like doing it properly. She even rather liked beating Nikomedes, who would be King of Sparta one day. Then Agiatis ran out. She did not look at the children; she was along the terrace beside Kratesikleia, who had dropped her tablets. ‘They’ve taken Orchomenos!’ she said. ‘Aratos came up in the night and attacked. Dear, Megistonous is prisoner, but we’ll get him back.’

  Kratesikleia picked up the tablets again. She said: ‘How many were killed?’

  ‘About three hundred, I’m afraid, counting the paid soldiers.’

  ‘Oh, those! How was it, do you know? Did we put up a good defence?’

  ‘Most brave, the messengers say. It was a night surprise. Every one thought Aratos was fifty miles away.’

  ‘Megistonous should not have allowed himself to be surprised. I suppose they will let me ransom him. He is wanted here, or will be soon. He could not have found a worse time to be taken prisoner. Is he wounded?’

  ‘They say not. Dear granny, you must not get anxious about him.’

  Kratesikleia smiled and patted the younger woman’s hand: ‘My lamb, I shan’t sleep any the worse. You’ve been married to two men and in love with them both. I’ve been married to two men and not the least in love with either of them. Leonidas gave me the boys and Chilonis, and he wasn’t as bad as you used to think, and Megistonous and I have a very proper respect for one another, but as far as that goes we are quite as happy when we are not in the same place and I am sure Aratos will have the sense to treat him well.’ She turned suddenly with a snap of her black bright eyes, so that the other jumped. ‘Philylla, you are listening! Yes, I can see it! Well, take my advice, and don’t fall in love with your husband, it will save a great deal of trouble.’

  Agiatis protested: ‘Don’t listen to her, Philylla! And will you tell the children about this? Say it will be revenged, and soon. The King says Aratos will not try to push south—he has not got the army for it. And the moment thin
gs are settled here, we will attack him and make up for it. If the men at Orchomenos had been all Spartan this would not have happened. But that will be changed in the New Times!’

  The Queen and her mother-in-law went in, and Philylla told the children. The two eldest understood a little and got angry and stopped playing for a few minutes. Then they started again, only shouting rather louder than they had before. Philylla rather thought the Scythians must have been in Orchomenos. Megistonous had very few Spartan troops and a good many hired ones—he had paid for them himself, as a gift to the State—Cretans and Italians, men from the Greek colonies and roughish, dark people from the native Italian cities which, it was said, were beginning to get prosperous and powerful, one most of all—Rome! A big, walled city among marshes, always fighting. That was what was happening now in all these outside countries that nobody had ever heard of fifty years ago. But, she supposed, they would all disappear again, in time, when she was older.

  Yes, she was sure the Scythians had been in the fortress. She did hope they hadn’t all been killed. She frowned and began to remember, attentively, the things Berris had said. Now that he was not there and perhaps never would be there, she thought of the answers she ought to have made and began to put together a theory of her own about beauty, or rather, against beauty, recognising, as Agiatis had, its inherent dangerousness. She thought of what really mattered to her and it seemed that two things did matter: the first was people, those warm, immediate people she knew and admired and loved; and the second was her country, Sparta—that country, not so much now as in the future, but a quick future; soon, soon, when it was as she and the others wanted it to be! Beauty, as Berris had explained it to her, came into neither of those things except accidentally, as, for instance, the Queen was beautiful and the mountains were beautiful. But it was not really a part of either of them. Trying to remember scraps of philosophy, what she had overheard and what the Queen or even the King had told her, she got to closer terms still with her ideas. Then it seemed to her that what she looked for both in people and in the State was goodness certainly, truth perhaps—she could not remember whether Sphaeros said they were the same thing!—but not this matter of beauty. She saw beauty as an alarming, violent, destructive power, Aphrodite the Untamed, caring for no standards but its own. She understood at last the thing which the Queen had told her: how in old days the Law-givers had driven Beauty out of Sparta for the sake of the Good Life. Already she foresaw conflict if it was let in again, though she was too young to put any form to it, and she was angry with beauty for upsetting things and angry with Berris Der for having talked and having given her these troubling thoughts where such a little time ago she had been quite clear and calm. It was no use wondering if he was dead. She gave her mind to the game again. She was not going to let Nikomedes beat her!