The Arkadians

by Lloyd Alexander

  "These old geezers do quite well at this sort of thing," Fronto remarked to Lucian. "It should be marvelously gory, swords clashing, fellows cloven to the chine whatever a chine may be."

  "There are battles of many kinds," said Gold-Horse, silencing Fronto with a glance, "some calling for more courage than others. Be you the judge of this one.

  "In that time, Mother Earth was but a half-grown girl," Gold-Horse continued. "There were few meadows of sweet grass, few streams of water, and the stony fields yielded barely enough to keep men and animals from hunger. Tribes fought each other to the death over a scrap of pasture and shed more blood than the water they gained from the shallowest brook.

  "Now, Lord Yellow-Mane was the strongest and wisest of chieftains, vigilant to defend the lives and well being of his clan and kindred. With his great bow that he alone could draw, his arrows that flew true to their mark, his sword that never lost its edge, and his unbreakable shield, he and his war band withstood every foe.

  "Yet, on a certain day, his old enemy, Lord Quick-to-Strike, armed himself and his warriors and challenged Yellow-Mane to mortal combat. Though such rashness puzzled him, for the sake of honor Yellow-Mane could not refuse. Nevertheless, on the eve of battle, his spirit was troubled; and, sleepless, he sat before his tent, pondering deeply.

  "Why does Quick-to-Strike seek combat?" he wondered. "My warriors far outnumber his, our victory is assured. What drives him to such folly? Has he gained some secret power unknown to me?"

  "As Yellow-Mane sat alone with his thoughts, his beloved steed, Cloud-Rising, white as snow capped Mount Panthea, beautiful as sunlight on morning grass, trotted up, laid her head on his shoulder, and spoke softly to him.

  "Even you, Lord, in your wisdom," she said, "have not seen to the heart of the matter. Quick-to-Strike does have a secret power: the strength of desperation. What drives him is not folly but starvation. He must risk all or his people will surely perish of hunger and thirst. Would you, Lord, not do likewise?"

  "Yes," replied Yellow-Mane, "and his despair makes him all the more dangerous. Therefore, I must fight him fiercely lest he destroy my people. This is my obligation and first duty to my clan. Even so, my heart aches; for this will not be battle but slaughter. I see no other course."

  "Always have I done your bidding," said Cloud-Rising, "and always have you trusted me to do so. Now I ask you to do my bidding in all things, exactly as I shall tell you."

  "Yellow-Mane gave his word. But when Cloud-Rising bade him follow her, he hesitated a moment. The morning of battle draws near," he said. "I must be at the head of my war band."

  "So you shall," said Cloud-Rising. "Where we go there is neither time nor space. When the moment comes, you shall be at the forefront of the fray."

  "Now we're getting down to it," whispered Fronto. "We'll soon have heads rolling, chines cloven-strong stuff, but don't let it upset you. It's only a story."

  "Yes, and I want to listen," replied Lucian. "I've never heard one like it before. So, please, Fronto, if you don't mind-"

  "Yellow-Mane then mounted his faithful steed," Gold-Horse went on, "and instantly she soared through the air as if she had grown wings. When she touched earth again, Yellow-Mane found himself in a land he had never seen before. In front of him rose a wall of fire blazing so fiercely that Yellow-Mane, brave though he was, drew back from it.

  "Pass through it without fear," said Cloud-Rising. "But what you must know is this: As fire eats all it touches, so it will consume all your joy of battle and of setting your strength against others."

  "I am a warrior," said Yellow-Mane, "and have always gone eagerly and happily to the fray. Such has been my nature. To lose that is to lose the very warp and weft of my being."

  "Tum back if you choose," said Cloud-Rising, "but what you will gain will be greater than what you lose."

  "And Yellow-Mane passed through the flames. As he felt his pride as a warrior bum away, he understood it had been only ashes to begin with.

  "Next, Cloud-Rising led him to a great waterfall, a roaring cataract so high that Yellow-Mane could not glimpse the source of it. Again, he hesitated and drew back from the thundering waters.

  "Pass through it without fear," said Cloud-Rising, "but what you must know is this: As a flood sweeps away all in its path, so will this torrent sweep away all striving for power and predominance."

  "I am a chieftain," said Yellow-Mane. "My striving is for my people above all. Without that, how shall I lead them?"

  "Tum back if you choose," said Cloud-Rising, "but what you will gain will be greater than what you lose."

  "And Yellow-Mane passed through the rushing waters. As they swept away the power he had so striven for, he understood it had been no more than a bubble borne away on the tide."

  "Where's the gore?" said Franta under his breath. "Not a drop, so far."

  Cloud-Rising then led Yellow-Mane across a field to a high tent, where sat a man wrapped in robes and blankets. A mask of painted wood covered his face. With artistry such as Yellow-Mane had never seen, the man was carving dolls in the shapes of men and women. Yet as soon as he finished one, he would break it and cast it aside.

  When Yellow-Mane cried out at seeing marvelous handiwork so treated, the doll maker replied: "As they are mine to make, so are they mine to break."

  "Then, with his knife, the doll maker drew a circle in the dust and within it set many tiny figures on horseback. He beckoned Yellow-Mane to look closely at them.

  "They are warriors arrayed for battle," said Yellow-Mane. "I see the faces of my war band, and myself leading them. There, too, is Quick-to-Strike and his men."

  The doll maker, in one movement of his hand, swept all these figures together in a heap. "Now, Yellow-Mane," he said, "sort them out, one from the other, friend from foe."

  "Easily done," said Yellow-Mane. Yet try as he may, they all appeared alike to him. "I cannot," he said at last. "How can they be sorted when among them is no difference?"

  "Go from here," said the doll maker. "If you have understood what you have seen, you will know what you must do."

  "Yellow-Mane mounted his steed again and, that instant, found himself at the head of his war band. Now came Quick-to-Strike with his own men ready to battle. But Yellow-Mane galloped forward and halted between the two lines of warriors.

  "I will raise no hand against you," Yellow-Mane called out as Quick-to-Strike rode up, sword unsheathed, to join combat. "To slay you is to slay myself as well. Your warriors and mine are not two tribes, but one people of one body. Does a man cut off his own limbs or plunge a blade into his own heart? Let us join together in peace."

  "I have no thirst for blood," replied Quick-to-Strike. "But it is easy for you to cry peace when your weapons are greater than mine, and with them, you may tum upon us whenever you please."

  "Behold, then, what I do," said Yellow-Mane, "in token of good faith. My warriors shall do likewise, and so shall yours."

  With that, Yellow-Mane flung his great bow high into the air, drew his arrows from their quiver and scattered them to the wind. He plunged his sword into the ground up to its hilt, and cast aside his shield.

  Seeing this, his warriors cried out in dismay. But Quick-to-Strike nodded agreement, saying, "I and my warriors will do the same, but on this condition: Your sacrifice must be complete. One last thing must be added: your war horse, Cloud-Rising."

  "No," retorted Yellow-Mane. "This I will not."

  "Yellow-Mane," said Cloud-Rising, "you promised to do my bidding. Now I bid you: Take my life, or all else goes for naught."

  "Yellow-Mane's heart shattered in his breast. Yet he had given his word. So he took the sword from the hands of Quick-to-Strike. Turning his face away, in a single sweep of the blade he slew Cloud-Rising.

  "No sooner had a drop of her blood touched the earth than a fountain of clear water gushed from the spot. His sword rose up as a tree laden with white blossoms. Where Yellow-Mane's arrows had fallen sprang shoots of tender grass. Where his shie
ld lay, there spread a lake sparkling like crystal; and, where he had flung his bow into the sky, now arched a rainbow.

  "And, that same instant, Cloud-Rising became a winged maiden garbed in shining white robes. Smiling with love, she took the hand of Yellow-Mane and bore him upward with her, higher and higher, until they vanished from sight.

  "Some say that Cloud-Rising was Woman-Three-Women in maidenly guise; others, that she was a sun daughter and took Yellow-Mane to dwell in a golden tent, and they ride Father Sun's horses each day from dawn to dusk; still others give different accounts. Who can tell? All truth is one truth. And so it is that the Horse Clan follows the path of peace."

  Gold-Horse set aside his instrument and bowed his head, and his years once again cloaked him. Fronto was loudly snuffling and blubbering as huge teardrops poured from his eyes and streamed down his nose.

  "Too much, too much!" he wailed. "I couldn't bear it when Yellow-Mane slew Cloud-Rising. I know it's only a story; but, in my present state, I don't want to hear of such things happening, as it were, to my kinfolk. Dear Lucian, be so kind as to fetch me another basin of mare's milk."

  "Thank you for the tale," said Lucian as Gold-Horse approached to offer courtesies. "It was beautiful, and more than that. A gift I'll never forget."

  "I am grateful," said Gold-Horse. "As for you," he added, taking Fronto's head between his hands and looking deeply into his eyes, "yes, I do see a poet in there. I hope for your successful transformation. I fear, however, that you may always remain something of an ass."

  15 - The Game of Warriors

  The feasting, with more dancing and music, kept on I well past daybreak. Fronto, having investigated several basins of mare's milk, snuffled about for yet another. Lucian would have gladly crawled under a blanket to sleep; but Swift-Arrow, still fresh-eyed, jumped up, stripped off his shirt, and called for his comrades to fetch their horses.

  "My young hotheads will play the Game of Warriors," See-Far-Ahead explained. "Their blood stirs, and better for them to sport than quarrel."

  "Local custom?" said Fronto, belching luxuriously. "Always interested in local customs. Because, you see, they're so interesting."

  "What kind of game?" asked Lucian.

  "A simple one," replied Swift-Arrow, smiling. "Horsemen gather within a circle. A leather ball stuffed with grass is put in play. Each rider strives to seize and carry it past the boundary."

  "That's all?"

  "No rider may dismount," said Swift-Arrow. "If he leaves his horse's back for any reason, he forfeits the game. That is the one and only rule. A harmless amusement, but it demands a small measure of strength and skill. It might please you to observe our sport-from a comfortable distance."

  "It might please me even more," said Lucian, returning Swift-Arrow's glance, "to try this harmless amusement. I'd enjoy it."

  "Your presence would honor us," replied Swift-Arrow as Lucian began peeling off his shirt. "We shall find a gentle old nag that will suit you best."

  "Here, here, no need for that," put in Franta. "I'll be delighted to serve. I'd enjoy a little romp. This delicious beverage has made me feel marvelously light-footed."

  Swift-Arrow burst out laughing. "A jackass? In the noble game?"

  "You told me there was only one rule," said Lucian. "I'll ride Fronto." "A jackass, then. Perhaps two." Swift-Arrow strode from the tent and whistled for his horse. Joy-in-the Dance seemed about to speak; but Lucian turned on his heel and hurried after the warrior. Licking up the last few drops from the basin, Franta trotted eagerly to join them.

  The dance ground had been cleared, and a circle had been marked out. The folk of the camp made way for the riders. Lucian, perched on Franta, entered the ring, and the onlookers closed ranks. A young boy ran up with a ball several times larger than Lucian's head and, at a signal from Swift-Arrow, tossed it into the ring.

  The warriors all seemed to go mad at that same instant, whooping and yip-yipping, yelling and screaming until Lucian feared his ears would split. Franta burst into raucous hee-haws and went lurching toward the wheeling, rearing horses. One rider had already leaned from his mount and snatched up the ball, which was attached to long, rawhide loops. As he made for the boundary, the whole band galloped straight for him, jostling their steeds against his, jabbing him with elbows and fists, and, by sheer force, knocking the ball from his grasp. When a second rider scooped it up, he, too, was kicked and pummeled until he dropped it.

  "All against all, every man for himself?" Lucian felt his blood rising. "Well, then: Yip-yip-yip!" Franta needed no urging. His eyes lit up, he laid back his ears and, braying wildly, plunged into the fray. Shorter and closer to the ground than the horses, the poet darted in and out among them, dodging and wheeling with joyous abandon.

  Deafened by the endless whooping and pounding hooves, Lucian's head spun as he found himself buffeted from all sides. The flank of one horse crashed broadside against him; an elbow jabbed him in the face, he choked and snorted at the blood streaming from his nose. A couple of riders had been knocked off their mounts and, in penalty, were sent from the ring. Though infuriated at being so belabored, Lucian was afraid of losing his own seat. Seeking a moment to get back his breath and his balance, he pulled away from the press of warriors. The ball, at the same time, rolled clear of the struggling riders.

  "I have it!" cried Lucian, about to seize the rawhide loop.

  "First, a little poetic license," said Fronto as the warriors, losing sight of the ball, milled around in all directions. Straddling the object as if he were hatching an oversized egg, Fronto trapped it between his hind legs and waddled toward the edge of the ring.

  "They can't find it. Pick it up now," ordered Fronto. "We'll make a run for it." Lucian snatched the ball from under Fronto's belly. The other players, by this time, had seen him do so. All bore down on him in full whoop, Swift-Arrow grinning in the lead. Bracing himself for the assault, Lucian clapped his heels against Fronto's flanks. The poet stood motionless.

  "Go! Go!" shouted Lucian.

  Franta did not budge, his eyes set on Swift-Arrow's mount. "Why, that's one of the mares that took such a fancy to me. And there's another. Good morning, ladies."

  Swift-Arrow's steed gave a flirtatious whinny as she plunged toward Franta. When she reached him, she stopped so abruptly that Swift-Arrow sailed head over heels to land heavily on the turf; likewise, the riders behind him.

  "Later, perhaps, my dear," said Franta as she fondly nuzzled him. He made for the boundary at a wobbling gallop, with Lucian still clutching the ball. The spectators laughed and cheered. Swift-Arrow, climbing to his feet, looked as if he had swallowed a porcupine.

  "Well done, my boy," said Franta. "What an exhilarating sport! Brightens the eye, sets the pulse racing and the blood coursing."

  "It certainly does," Lucian agreed, "and I don't ever want to play it again."

  "I hope those mares won't come looking for me," said Fronto. That night, at a special feast to celebrate the occasion, See-Far-Ahead declared Lucian and Fronto honorary members of the Horse Clan.

  "Never have I seen our game won in so unusual a fashion," the chieftain said. "I congratulate you. And I thank you. It is good for my hotheads to have their pride cooled a little."

  See-Far-Ahead called for pots of color and daubed clan markings on Lucian's forehead and cheeks, and on the nose and brow of Fronto.

  "Does this make me an honorary horse?" said the poet. "That's a step up from jackass."

  "Aiee-Ouch," said Joy-in-the-Dance, drawing Lucian aside, "I have a couple of things I want to tell you."

  "Oh?" Lucian, beaming with happy satisfaction, had decided to accept her humble apology, generously forgive her, and bask in her adoration at his triumph.

  "Aiee-Ouch, what you did," Joy-in-the-Dance began, "I can only say-well, it was the most foolhardy, dangerous, silliest, stupidest-"

  "Was it?" Lucian abruptly stopped basking. Instead, he bristled. "I'd call it a matter of honor. Besides," he added under his breat
h, "I won."

  "Aside from pointing out that you could have broken your neck," she went on, "what I mainly wanted to say I hope you managed to see why I didn't tell you who I was."

  "I don't know-All right, I suppose I did." Joy-in-the-Dance took his hand. "I thought you would."

  "So the two of you are on fond terms again," Fronto remarked later. "That's gratifying."

  "Yes," said Lucian, "but I really hate it when she's right."

  See-Far-Ahead decided that he would go with his daughter to Mount Panthea. Leaving the camp in charge of Swift-Arrow, he picked half a dozen of his warriors to journey with him, ordered his tent struck and provisions loaded onto pack animals. Joy-in-the-Dance, lightly astride a slender white mare, rode beside her father's black stallion. Swift-Arrow, having made a sour sort of peace with Lucian, offered him a sturdy chestnut-and white pony and provided Ops with a similar mount.

  Lucian was not sure how thankful he should be to Swift-Arrow. For the first few days, he was too sore to sit down and no less so when he stood up. He never acquired a taste for being bounced and battered and having his teeth rattled at every jolt. Even when he could gallop over the grasslands, yip-yipping as well as any of the warriors, he would not have chosen to be a permanent member of the Horse Clan.

  "You're a long way from bean counting," said Fronto, observing the daubs of color still vivid on Lucian's face, and his skin broiled nearly black from the unclouded sun. "My boy, you're turning into quite the picturesque barbarian-and, as a poet, I've found that a touch of wildness never goes amiss, especially with the ladies."

  "Picturesque barbarian?" Lucian shook his head. "I don't know what I am. Or what I'll be." He turned to Ops, who was looking thoughtfully at the snow capped peak of Mount Panthea rising just ahead. "And you, Ops? What will you ask the Lady? Is there something she could grant you?"

  "I doubt it," said the scapegoat. "Oh, perhaps more opportunity to be of service. Not so much wandering at random. It's hit or miss, finding people to blame something on you. Yes, I would like a steadier occupation."