by George Moore
A horrible story! Kebren muttered. Many a time, said the muleteer, have these witches disguised themselves as wolves to get the sons of men that found favour in their eyes. Art satisfied, Biote, with the tale? Kebren asked. She did not answer, and the muleteer, feeling that stories of the Euboean hills were out of the Athenian’s humour, stopped his mules in the middle of a wood. A pretty wood indeed, said Biote, with a dry bank to sit on whilst we eat our midday meal. When you have eaten and rested, the muleteer replied, follow the path along the brook till you come to the meadow in which my mules will soon be munching, and myself munching, too, in the best covert I can find. Here is the meal, he continued, tied in the parcel just as the old waterman gave it to me: cheese and bread-and-butter and slices of cold kid, and a bottle of wine. I see they have not forgotten to add dried raisins and almonds to the banquet!... A talkative and not unpleasant muleteer, if it were not for his stories of sorceresses, Kebren said. But we cannot let him away without sharing some part of our meal with him. And calling back the muleteer he gave him some slices of kid and a piece of cheese. Thy words were: A pretty wood, and it merits thy praise, Biote, for it’s neither spare nor thickly crowded, and under this great bough we shall find shade in which to eat our meal.
The hot morning had hushed the thrushes in the grove, the larks in the sky, the linnets in the bushes, and drawing their hats over their eyes after the meal they would have dozed if the chortling and scratching of the cock had not kept them awake. We might quiet him with some crumbs thrust into his basket, Biote said from under her hat; or maybe he is thirsty. Kebren, go to the brook for water. And when he returned they lay expecting sleep to overtake them every minute. The brook flowed with a drowsing murmur, broken occasionally when the current divided round a stick in the middle of it, and their speech taking tune from the water, they talked languidly, asking each other questions, and might have slept if Biote had not asked Kebren if she spoke with a Boeotian accent. Thy speech would betray thee to an Athenian, was his incautious answer. Why art thou with me if my accent is offensive? Thy speech is correct, Biote, even to the particles, which we sometimes neglect in Athens. Always Athens! she cried, and he lay quite still, waiting for further reproofs. She is reproving me in her dreams, if she be dreaming, he said, and when she rose to her feet and went in search of the irises that still bloomed in wet places, she talked as if the question of accent, the Attic and the Boeotian, had never arisen, and he understood that it was characteristic of her to pass easily, almost unconsciously, from violent temper into happy reconciliation. Returning to him with her arms full of flowers, she asked: Where did the muleteer tell us to look for him? In the green field through which the brook flows, Biote. Then let us go thither. And coming upon him under some bushes out of the sun’s way, she said: Rouse him with thy foot and inquire where he hath hidden the flagon. The muleteer answered: Water from the brook! and staggering after his mules, he said: — I shall have to take you all the way up these green links, for there’s but one cart-track through the forest. At the crack of the whip the mules shook their long ears and fell into a homeward trot, leaving the muleteer to sleep or to wake as he pleased, and Kebren and Biote to exchange remarks about the beauty of the forest through which they were passing.
We have passed a circle of acacia-trees, said Kebren. The beech, too, is of the woodland, she replied, and under beechen branches we meet with no gloomy dells, nor rocks, nor scathed and twisted roots, trysting-places for crows and ravens; and then forgetful of these swarth birds she pointed to ferns uncurling, saying: — By moonlight and noonlight nymphs and satyrs play here for certain and bathe in the pools. As if to vindicate her imagination a secluded pool in which maidens were splashing came into sight. Maidens come from you village, the muleteer said, pointing with his whip. But without heeding him Biote began to speak of a tapestry that she and her mother had worked at during the last six months of Theano’s life. In our tapestry there was a pool in which Diana’s nymphs were bathing, she standing among high rocks indignant that Actaeon should have violated her privacy. Mother was sorry that we could not include the incident of the changing of Actaeon into a stag, hunted by his own hounds, and when I said that it was a subject for another tapestry she looked at me sadly, asking me to say truly if I thought we should be able to finish the one we were working on. Yes, mother, we shall, I answered her. Why she should have set such great store on the finishing of the tapestry I do not know; her last strength was given to it. But death came quicker than we expected, and the unfinished tapestry is now rolled up in a cupboard. I often think of unrolling it and finishing it in memory of her, but something holds me back.
The mule-cart jolting from rut to rut interrupted from time to time her memories of her mother and her life with Aglaia, with whom she used to walk in the forests on the way to Thermopylae, learning the names of the trees and the birds, and Kebren listened, enchanted by her laughter, in which there was always a note of sadness. Of what art thou thinking? she asked, breaking off suddenly, and he answered that he was thinking of the folk of every city coming out at eventide to hear her telling stories. If I were a rhapsodist, Kebren; and while she sought for other little narratives that would justify his opinion of her, the mule-cart plunged into deeper ruts, the axle-tree breaking at last. We are still a league from Mnasalcas’s house, said the muleteer, and the time passed wearily for Kebren and Biote, watching the tethered mules and speaking empty words till he returned with a wheelwright. The mending of the axle-tree took longer than they expected, and when it was mended the mule-cart had to proceed with great care. We could walk faster! said Kebren, and Biote, at the end of her patience, begged to be allowed to walk; but Kebren protested, saying: The cart moves slowly down the track, and to stop the mules for thee to alight, and to stop them again for thee to climb back, will delay us. With a sigh she approved his decision, and her interest in the journey did not revive until the muleteer told them that during the summer heats Mnasalcas and his wife left their house to live in a grove of plane-trees hard by. As soon as the sound of my wheels reaches his ear he’ll lift a branch and come to meet us.... Here he comes!
Yes, here he comes, Mnasalcas replied, overjoyed to see his old friend’s daughter. The muleteer hath told us, said Biote, that during the summer months a grove of plane-trees serves you for a house. And he told you truly! said Mnasalcas. Come into our summer-house. This is Kebren, our guest in Aulis, said Biote. Ah, here is Leto! My wife, said Mnasalcas, turning to Kebren, Biote’s friend almost from childhood. So thou hast come to us again, said Leto, this time to be cured of marsh fever. The reeds yonder are never free from it. But thy looks belie the sickness. When did it take thee? In the courtyard, replied Biote. We’ll leave them to their chatter, said Mnasalcas; let us to the open hillsides. Women have always much to talk about, and they talk more pleasantly in our absence. He lifted a bough to tempt Kebren with the sight of the pastoral. On the plain and on the foot-hills I am reputed a good walker, but Otanes writes that I had better not match myself against thee. Twelve leagues over a rough country try a man’s legs. They tried mine, Kebren answered. Otanes tells me that thou art a great actor from Athens. An actor I was, Mnasalcas, but never a great actor. Learned in Homer, Mnasalcas continued. It is plain to thee, however, as to everybody, that no man can do more than one thing in his life. I look to sheep, Otanes to shipping; so do we live and thrive. But I have other sheep that I am prouder of than these; we shall come upon them presently. And they trudged on, Kebren trying to come to some comprehension of his companion, Mnasalcas eluding him at every turn as might an inscription in an almost unknown language.
And not knowing whether to direct his eyes to the mountains, the forests, or the fields, and afraid to discern beauty or ugliness in the yoes and rams, and feeling talk to be needed, however uniform of purpose it might be, Kebren said: We are all three tall men, thou, Otanes and I. Mnasalcas answered that he had met taller men but not many, and Kebren continued to admire in awkward silence his companion’s great
feet and long legs. Mnasalcas raised his hat and mopped his face without complaining of the heat. A great red face, tanned by the sun to the colour of copper, said Kebren to himself. A clever man on his own lines, who never varies from himself, well liked by the shepherds for his knowledge of sheep and for his fine, broad shoulders. Now, here is my ram, said Mnasalcas, and I am proud of him; and here is a flock of fifty waiting for him. These animals are not like men; they think not of each other till breeding-time is upon them; and then they are very much as we are, ram after yoe and yoe after ram. And wondering whether Mnasalcas would understand him, Kebren said: A flock on a sunny hillside, every yoe with her lamb beside her, carries a meaning that I cannot put into words (a great poet might), a sense of perfect security, fidelity, destiny and duty. It is a bad yoe that neglects her lamb, Mnasalcas answered, and we have a job sometimes to persuade one that hath lost her lamb to accept a lamb that is not hers. But methinks we are near to folding time. Before long thou’lt see our shepherds at work with their dogs. Shepherds are not as good walkers as they are reported to be, but they can stand watching the flock hour after hour, a thing which I never could do myself. And they talked on in this fashion, passing the time with casual remarks about the flock before them, till Mnasalcas said: Now the shepherds arrive with their dogs at their heels, and the folding begins. Watch the dogs working: every dog knows his own yoes, and if one is missing he’ll not stop seeking till he hath found her. See that black dog — the great circle he is making to get ahead of the sheep and to bring them into the fold. They will be hot this night, said Kebren, and Mnasalcas replied that they were a little late that year with the shearing. It begins to-morrow or the day after. Our shepherds are fairly good, but we expect a great shearer from Chalkis. Yonder I see Leto.
On their way towards her they stopped that they might better hear her words: Supper is late this evening; come ye to our help; and all working together, a long table was raised on trestles in the grove and covered with smoked tunny-fish, cold kid and lamb, cheeses, and jugs of wine — a plentiful fare which the servitude and numerous shepherds sat down to after their day’s labour. A little while for digestion, said Leto, but when the belly is filled, the ear craves; and taking a flute she blew a few notes, saying as she handed back the flute to the shepherd: The muses are awake. And the shepherds played and sang singly and in concert, Discos showing such skill in playing on the double flute that the company applauded. He takes the prize every year, Leto said, and she called upon Discos for the well-known ditty with which he collected his cows and brought them home. The tune was repeated again and again, till Biote wearied of it, and catching sight of the muleteer that had brought them from the Lelantus hidden away in a corner still busily grubbing, she called upon him to tell the end of Pholus, who was carried away by a Thessalian witch. Give me time, noble lady, to chew these grapes else I choke! the muleteer answered, and when they were munched he said: I know no more than I have told thee already. Whereupon Biote related the story she had heard from him, and turning to the shepherds asked if there was not one amongst them who knew the end of Pholus. At first there was no reply, and then a great nudging and whispering began, and the whispering passing into words she learnt that Leontion, an old shepherd of the company, was given to telling that Pholus had chosen to remain a wolf in the forest. At the sound of his own name old Leontion shrank into the darkness of a bough, out of which he was dragged by a comrade. Since the honourable lady would hear thy story, on to thy legs with thee, or else be thought an old curmudgeon, good for naught but the dish of tunny and the wine flask! A wonderful end truly, said Leontion, true or false, like Homer himself, but afeard am I to tell the story lest evil should come of it. At last, pressed by Biote and the shepherds, he began: The story told in my country is that when Pholus was turned out of the hut the old witch said: Thou’lt not be able to run with me to Thessaly if I do not change thee into a wolf; and she uttered a lot of little growls and yelps that have a meaning for witches in Thessaly and the power to change men and women into animals. Nor was she long muttering her spells when Pholus’s arms began to sprout into paws, hair grew thickly all over him, and his head became as a wolf’s head, pointed, with eyes close together. A wolf he was, and a great story is told by a harpist in my country of the twain galloping over hills, lying down to rest in the dales, and feeding on whatever came their way, hares and rabbits, kids and goats, for they were not minded to return to Thessaly that night, Pholus’s strength having given out. I have not got the tale of their adventures, and if I had we should all be here till the stars began to dwindle; but I know well the end of the tale, which is what ye need, and the end is in Thessaly. Soon after their arrival the old bitch said: Now I’ll turn myself into a woman! and rubbing herself all over with another ointment, the bristles soon began to fall off her and she was the ugliest thing that human eyes ever beheld, knock-kneed, pot-bellied, with flat thighs and breasts like little long sacks reaching nearly to her navel, all her lovely wolf’s teeth gone and yellow fangs in their places. But being ardent as ever, she cried: Now I would know thee in my new shape! and she advanced so eagerly to embrace Pholus that he shrank back and then sprang upon her, biting her through the throat, which he was able to do, for she had left him as a wolf — a big oversight for her, but even witches forget things sometimes, as hath long been known. And is that the end of the story? Biote asked. Noble lady, the end is the best bit of all, and it must be true, so natural does it seem. All the witches in the neighbourhood heard the old hag’s screams and came to her help, and seeing there was no breath left in her they stripped themselves naked and danced round Pholus, crying: We’ll turn thee back into a man, but thou must choose which one of us thou’lt live with. The wolf that was Pholus looked them all over, and seeing them as ugly as the witch he had killed — deformed, lame, hunch-backed (a frightful sight they were dancing naked round him) and thinking he couldn’t kill them all, he hopped over the rocks, pursued for a while by the witches but outstripping them. In the forest he mated with a bitch-wolf, and brought kids and lambs to the cubs to eat when the bitch was weary of them and would not have them any longer on her dugs. Wolves in appearance they were, like their parents, but without wolfish instincts, gentle and docile, becoming faithful watchers to a shepherd, taking a liking to the folding of sheep in the twilight and the guarding of them from night-prowlers, so that the master became richer than any other shepherd, rarely losing a sheep, and the new breed was much sought after.... A sorry world it must have been for men before the dog left his kin, said Mnasalcas. Fill your cups with wine and drink to the health of man’s best friend! And the health being drunk, tales were told of the care of the dog for sheep, and his knowledge of his master’s sheep, able to pick them out of another flock into which they had strayed on their way back from the fair. Comic stories mingled with serious, an addlepated boy telling a story he had heard from his grandfather of a dog that chased a wolf for thirty-three leagues and in the last lap lay down to die, but was tended by the wolf, that brought him water. How did he bring water? was asked, and the addle-pated boy answered: I suppose he must have brought it in his mouth, at which everybody made merry, till eyelids began to droop and Mnasalcas said: We to our couches and the shepherds to the folds.
On these words the servitude began to clear the grove of the supper-table and to lay down rugs and pillows where the four might sleep, a double couch for Mnasalcas and Leto and two single couches for Kebren and Biote. Within talking distance, said Mnasalcas, if ye be so minded; but talk with hushed voices, for Leto and I would sleep. We, too, would sleep, Biote answered; but they strove after sleep vainly whilst the grove darkened, kept awake by restless thoughts and the heavy breathing of Mnasalcas and Leto. Rugs were thrown aside, so ill at ease were they under them, and the silence and the darkness they endured, each wishing for the other to speak, till at last Biote’s voice sounded in Kebren’s ear: Kebren, I am frightened! The stories that we heard the shepherds tell of witches are running in my head, winding
and unwinding and beginning again. Speak a little word to me, for I am truly frightened. Shall I awaken Leto and Mnasalcas? he asked, and she answered: — How could Mnasalcas save us if the witches came? I was for stopping the muleteer in his story, Biote, but thou wouldst hear it, and afterwards the story of the dancing witches — Ah, Kebren, do not reproach me; I am frightened. Take my hand. Thy hand is cold, Biote, yet the night is warm! And he, too, was frightened, a little of the witches and a great deal of the north wind coming and going out of the grove, laden with sweet resin from the pines on the mountains and retaining the savour of the sea it had come over. A witch indeed is this wind! he said to himself, and if it persists I shall take her in my arms. And then? Again came the witch wind, but the arm was no longer there, and the impulse to go to her weakening and the motive of his life strengthening, he said: Had I taken her arm my life would no longer have been my own.
The cock they had brought to offer to Æsculapius shrilled in his basket. Kebren waited, hoping the bird would return to sleep, but he shrilled again and again, and a night robbed of thought and of sleep becoming unendurable, Kebren caught up the rug that he had no need of and covered the basket, saying: In the feigned darkness he will believe that the steeds of Apollo have returned to their stables, tuck his head under his wing and sleep again.
