She took off her sandals and began to walk out towards them. She remembered there were leeches in Lake Mareotis, but she did not mind. For a long way out it was little more than ankle deep, and there were patches of slimy weed. The birds began to move from in front of her; the cranes unfolded white wings and lifted themselves away to the far side; the flamingoes stalked slowly to right and left; the duck squattered towards the middle of the lake and settled again. It was cool underfoot. It reminded her suddenly of the salt marshes of the secret road; it reminded her of Murr, dead a long time ago, dead and forgotten as Philylla would be forgotten. She sobbed aloud as she walked out. The tears began running down her face again. She felt as though she had been used to that for years now. She remembered that she had once been happy. How was that? What did it feel like? And then she blamed herself and mocked herself for not being utterly happy in those impossible times. She had been frightened of happiness. Instead of taking it and accepting it, she had looked forward timorously to its inevitable ending—as though she could know then how it would end!—and used up her strength and thought in trying to ward off evil before evil was yet there. She had let herself be disturbed and driven away from happiness by countless things which were now not even noticeable. Even two days ago she might have been happy! She had been afraid of the jealousy of unknown powers, and had tried to propitiate them by spoiling her happiness, by cutting off a part of it to sacrifice to them. Today she was afraid of no power, not even death, now she knew what it was. She had doubted and feared and compromised and distrusted her happiness. So it was taken from her and it would never come back.
She saw now that she was a good way from the shore, walking slowly through water almost up to her knees, dragging her skirt in it. The rosy birds had stepped away with their long legs. There was only one left out of the whole flock. She was not at all surprised, because she suddenly remembered what bird it must be. She went up to it and said: ‘I don’t know what to do, mother. Please tell me.’
The bird said: ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Erif. But I knew you’d come in the end, so that didn’t matter. Stop crying, Erif. There, that’s better.’
‘Do you know what’s happened to me, mother, all these years since you turned into a bird and we cut ourselves and mourned for you?’
‘Quite enough, Erif. You’re Spring Queen, as your father meant you to be.’
‘You know what I did to father?’
‘Yes, darling, you had to. Men are so stupid sometimes, aren’t they. And sometimes they’re all one wants, for ever. I’m glad your Corn King is that kind of man. I always hoped he would be, even when your father was silly about him.’
‘Yes, but he isn’t here and I haven’t seen him for six years. And I haven’t been Spring Queen for six years either.’
‘Oh yes, you have. You are going through the agony of the Spring Queen now. You have to do that, you know, before the really important thing happens.’
‘Nothing more is going to happen to me now, mother. I don’t see how it can. The important thing has happened and it has broken and smashed everything else, for me and Berris, so that we just can’t move. I’ve got stuck, mother; my life has got stuck and broken.’
‘That’s part of it for both of you. You have to be broken before you can be put together again. That was what they did to King Osiris here, a long time ago. That was what happened to your father when he was made into the corn. It’s curious, isn’t it? Do you like my new feathers, Erif? You always used to like pretty things.’ The bird stretched out its rosy wings and slid its neck admiringly across them.
‘Yes, mother, they’re lovely. But even if something’s going perhaps to start again with me—and I don’t see how it possibly can—Philylla is dead and I loved her and she was younger than me and so beautiful. And my first baby is dead too. Both those things are real, not just in my mind. Each of them is—a kataleptike phantasia. And an utter waste.’
The bird laid its neck caressingly on Erif’s; its pink feathers were cool and soft, but with an odd pliancy, a pleasant roughness of texture against human skin. It said: ‘I don’t know about anyone except the people I love myself, and most of all you, because I love you best of all, Erif. And it’s no good answering when one doesn’t know. I expect somebody knows, or will some time. I wish you weren’t so unhappy, my darling; but I think you’ve got to be, and I know it won’t go on.’
‘I’m not so unhappy as I was half an hour ago. It’s funny.’
‘When somebody one loves is dead, the worst time is just afterwards, when the final thing is done, when their bodies are buried or burnt.’
‘Philylla was burnt, mother.’
‘Up to then they have still some kind of reality. They are still in a way themselves. It’s you who make me talk about reality, Erif, though it’s a thing that always puzzled me. But when that happens there’s a sort of thud, isn’t there? Something heavy comes down on one. It echoes for a long time after that, but fainter.’
‘Yes, mother. That’s the worst time. I suppose it does get fainter. I suppose one does stop keeping faith with one’s friends after they’ve been dead for a little while.’
‘I don’t think it’s that,’ said the bird. ‘Keeping faith has two sides, and this is only in your single heart. Don’t cry, darling; that’s not as bad as it sounds, and it’ll make your head ache. You’ve got something difficult to do still.’
‘Have I? What?’
‘Well, there’s the other part of the oracle, you see. Hadn’t you remembered?’
‘Was it true, then, in spite of what Hyperides said?’
‘Oh, Hyperides was right too. You may tell him I said so, not that he’ll believe you. Oracles are a clumsy way of doing things and they often go wrong. It would be much more sensible if King Apollo saw to things himself rather more. He used to, so perhaps he’ll start again some day.’
‘Then what have I got to do, mother?’
‘Don’t worry, Erif. You’ll do it. You see, you’ll have to, because you’re the Spring Queen. Now, darling, you’ll catch cold if you stay with me any longer. Your dress is wet through. I don’t like these Greek dresses you wear now nearly so much as the old ones, but you’re doing your hair very prettily. Kiss Berris from me. I’m proud of him. And of you, Erif. It’s much more interesting to be a woman, really. Good-bye till next time, my darling.’ The bird lifted its long legs and stalked off to the others, keeping a look-out for any oddments in the way of fish or newts. Erif turned back to the shore and paddled slowly out of the water. She sat down on the bank, pulled the leeches off her feet and put on her sandals. Then she walked back towards Alexandria. She was not quite sure what had been happening.
She went in through the same gates and back up the street. Every one was up now, and busy and noisy; they jostled into her. She came back to the house. On the stairs Ankhet met her and said: ‘They have done that to the body of King Kleomenes. At dawn today.’ But she did not answer. In the big room Berris was at work again. She heard the knocking of the mallet against the chisel and the chipping of the chisel against the stone before she got there. When she came in he looked round at her once and then went on. ‘I’ve been down to Lake Mareotis,’ she said. ‘I met mother there.’
‘Lie down,’ said Berris. ‘You’ve been out in the sun without a veil. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘But I did,’ she said, lying down all the same. ‘She’s turned into a flamingo. She said she was going to, ever so long ago, in the tent. This time she told me a lot of things.’
‘Do stop,’ said Berris. ‘All this has gone to your head. I don’t blame you, Erif, but it makes it difficult to work, so keep quiet.’
‘She said I was to kiss you from her, Berris,’ she said. ‘Do come over and let me. I feel somehow as if I couldn’t stand up.’
Reluctantly Berris came over and stood beside her. She looked up at him, pursing her mouth. He bent and kissed her quickly. He wondered whether he ought to send for a doctor; perha
ps she should be bled. He put down his chisel. She seemed to be trembling rather. The edge of her dress was muddy. He heard Ankhet on the stairs, probably bringing them up some food again. He called to her quickly and even anxiously. She came in and stood beside him, but Erif did not seem to notice her. ‘Berris,’ she said once, in an odd sort of hissing whisper. Her hands clenched tight on the sides of the couch and her eyes began to blink heavily. He knelt down beside her, suddenly terrified. ‘Erif,’ he said, ‘Erif darling, what’s happening?’
The whisper sank lower, as though it were being dragged out of her painfully, the last remains of consciousness. ‘The Snake to the Dead,’ she said thickly, so that he scarcely recognised her voice. Then her eyes snapped tight and a hard shaking took her body as though she were in the grip of something invisible.
‘Erif!’ cried Berris. ‘Erif, oh Erif, don’t!’
But Ankhet seized him suddenly by the arm and pulled him back. ‘Let her be!’ she said. ‘Let her be or you will hurt the khu. This will stop in a little.’
She kept hold of him for a few minutes longer, stopping him every time he made a movement towards his sister, and by and bye the shaking grew more spasmodic, slacking down for moments and then reviving, at last slacking down altogether. The body of Erif Der lay still, only breathing deeply at long intervals. The tension of the arms and face seemed to be relaxed. ‘There,’ said Ankhet, ‘the khu has gone. It will come back. Only we must wait and not let her be disturbed.’ She drew the curtain across the window immediately above Erif’s head, so that no direct sunlight should come on her.
‘But do you know what’s happened to her?’ said Berris, and then suddenly he sobbed: ‘Oh, Ankhet, if she goes too—!’
‘But it is all right,’ said Ankhet slowly. ‘Nothing will happen to her. I will try to tell you in Greek words, Berris Der, but it is very difficult, and I do not know rightly even in my own head how it is. The knowledge has been lost. But I believe it is like this.’ She paused and counted on her fingers. ‘There are seven, eight, nine parts of a man or woman. It is quite easy to say what they are called, but not so easy at all to think of them separately. But I will try. There are the body and the shadow. There are the heart, the soul, and the spiritual body, which is a different thing again, but does not get much separated during life. There is the name and the power. I do not know if names matter very much among you barbarian people, and I do not know if you have power, though I think she must have.’ Ankhet slanted her head towards the couch. ‘Then there is the kha, that is, the double, one’s own image which is always separate, but yet it cannot be taken away, any more than a reflection in a looking-glass can be taken away. And there is the khu, that is, the spirit. And both the kha and the khu can go on journeys and do things, and the khu can enter into other bodies or make itself a body to do its will. Do you understand at all, Berris Der?’
‘I understand the words,’ said Berris, ‘but not what they mean. And I don’t see what they have to do with my sister.’
‘She has split up,’ said Ankhet patiently. ‘People do that, you see, when something has hit them very hard, and some people learn to do it when they choose. I am not quite certain how she is split, but I have seen something like this happen before, and I think she has sent out her khu, her spirit, to take or make some other body and make it do something she wants it to do. Do you know what that would be?’
Berris said slowly, trembling a good deal himself: ‘The last thing she said was: “The Snake to the Dead.”’
‘Well, that will be it,’ said Ankhet, with a suddenly satisfied tone in her voice. ‘Do you know what dead?’ He shook his head. ‘But that doesn’t really matter. It is her concern. But if we hear of any snake during the next day or two, we may be certain that it is Erif. Now, all we have to do is to see that the rest of her is not disturbed or wakened before the right time, and that the khu is not hindered from coming back.’
‘What must I do?’ said Berris, for the moment at least relying on her.
‘Do?’ said Ankhet. ‘I think you had better have some breakfast. I was bringing it up with me. It is a pity she did not have any before she started on this journey. However, it will do her no harm, though she may be hungry when she wakes. And after breakfast you had better go on working. And if anyone comes in, do not let them try to wake her, however much they may want to and however much they may say I have been telling you the thing that is not so.’
‘I see,’ said Berris. ‘I think I quite understand. You are sure it will not disturb her if I go on working?’
‘Oh, quite sure,’ said Ankhet smiling, and she brought him in his breakfast.
Later that morning Sphaeros came in. He was very much worried when he saw Erif and wanted to send for a doctor or try to wake her up, but Berris would not let him. He said he had found out from the woman with whom Phoebis and Neareta had lodged where the boy Gyridas was, and he was going at once to fetch him. And then he said: ‘You know what they did to my pupil Kleomenes? Well, a very strange thing seems to have happened. There is a great snake which has wound itself round his body and the stake. It keeps the birds from pecking at his head. I have not seen it yet, but I have heard on good authority that it is so. It is very curious. One knows that dead bodies breed worms and beetles, but I do not think that can be the explanation here. Berris, you are looking very ill! What is the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ said Berris, ‘but I think I have heard that the bodies of heroes in old days were guarded by snakes or even changed into snakes. I have heard that a snake is the easiest thing a man can turn into. Or a woman.’
‘Superstitions,’ said Sphaeros, frowning. ‘I did not think you would believe these old wives’ tales, Berris!’
‘All the same,’ said Berris, ‘I hope they will not drive off the snake or hurt it.’
‘They are more likely to worship it,’ said Sphaeros, and sighed. ‘They will do that for Kleomenes when he is dead for the sake of a serpent, who would not lift a finger to help him when he was alive for the sake of his ideas.’
‘I am going to make some more pictures of him,’ said Berris.
‘Are you?’ said Sphaeros wearily, turning to go. He was not interested in pictures, even those ones.
So for three days the snake guarded the body of Kleomenes, and every day more and more men and women came with offerings and expiations. Sosibios was very angry and tried to drive them away, but they would not go, so he thought he had better acquiesce, and refused to concern himself with the affair at all. Word was sent to the divine Ptolemy at Canopus, and he sent back in return a very curious offering which was taken to the body by a solemn procession of Alexandrians. And in the meantime the flayed corpse dried and blackened and shrivelled, but it was so heaped with flowers and sweet leaves that no one saw it, but only the great bright-eyed snake above, coiled on the stake and weaving its head from side to side. For three days people came from town and country to see this and whisper and pray. And for three days Erif Der lay on the couch, unmoving except for the rare deep breaths that lifted and filled her body and then let it sink again. For the first day Berris worked and watched, taking long spells from his work to kneel beside the couch, staring. But the second and third day he worked steadily without interruption, because other watchers had come, and it was they who stood or knelt beside her, watching and waiting for the khu to come back and Erif to open her eyes.
Chapter Four
ANKHET AND HER husband had gone early in the morning with their offering to Kleomenes and the snake. She came back hurriedly and called Berris to come down to her. She seized hold of him and said: ‘The snake has gone! When I went, it was there, hanging on the cross-piece of the stake and moving its head, and then in a moment it had glided down and was among us. It was going somewhere, and it knew where it was going, for its eyes were bright and fixed like polished sards. We all gave way to it and blessed it, and no one has trodden over its track in the dust. But now, Berris Der, I think your sister will open her eyes very soon.�
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Berris ran up the stairs again. He looked at Erif; there was no change yet. ‘I wonder if I’d better shave,’ he said. For it was four days since he had.
‘You’d certainly better!’ said Hyperides. He was looking at the big squared charcoal drawing for one of the new pictures. It was amazing how much better they often looked in that state. Like one’s own books before they were published, he thought.
Berris found a razor among his paint-brushes. ‘Let me know when the change comes,’ he said.
‘Surely,’ said Hyperides; but neither he nor Sphaeros thought there was likely to be a change. He was resolved to get a doctor in that evening whatever the others said. He had made inquiries and heard of a first-class Greek doctor who would have nothing to do with Egyptian superstitions. The catalepsy had already lasted unbroken for three days; it could not be allowed to go on much longer. If this had been happening in Marob he might almost have accepted the fantastic explanation, but in Alexandria, that city of learning which he had always longed to go to—no! Even Tarrik thought it most unlikely. What had his Erif, his Spring Queen, to do with Kleomenes?
The Corn King and the Spring Queen Page 73
