The Scarlet Fig: Or, Slowly Through a Land of Stone, Book Three of the Vergil Magus Series

by Avram Davidson

  And so and after all of this, did anyone, lord or thrall, enquire: Is there no assoilment for my sorrow? Let then the priest or the philosopher or the wise woman in her secret grove, say several sundry conjectured things: yet at the end of all such, see them all hold up their hands and cast down their eyes: what say they then? No…. None … save thou go and eat of the Scarlet Fig that grows in the land of the gentle Lotophages.

  Small comfort, then, to hear further such things, as, This was revealed in olden times by Polydamna, the wife of Thon, that if man and woman should eat and drink of it, though they had seen Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, Daughter, Husband, Wife, and Child slain by the pitiless sword, they should not let fall a tear upon their cheeks. Was it true? was true that the Scarlet Fig maketh cease from grief and the many pains that distress both mind and heart, maketh take consolation and be not afraid nor sicken in the soul?

  It grew in far-off Lotusland which lay beyond the Columns of Heaven-Upholding Atlas, beyond the Pillars of Mercules, lost in the misty distance of the great grey green Sea of Atlantis; whither ne poor man could, ne no rich man would, adventure there to navigate …

  It was not precisely scarlet, a tinge of crimson lay within its color. Rather larger, rather longer, even rather softer than the fig. From a middle distance one might say it was a pomegranate, but coming closer, plain one saw that no pomegranate it was. Its flower was richer than an empery of other flowers, both in color and in olor, more fragrant, richer. Its taste was, though one might call it holy, as more so than the holy eiobab which, though ever so holy compared to things profane, was yet (the eiobab) a thing confected: and the lotus grew, even as rank and common weed, shunned by the starvling asses of rough, scruff coats and coasts, grow: yet aside from that one single and certainly singular environ, grew it nowhere else; and neither it nor its taste nor fragrance nor its forgetfulness of woe might ever be confected.

  That which was eat from the cymbal during the Mysteries of Attic Eleusis might be eat by anyone who had the Greek speech and the price of attending: who had “seen the Sun rise at Midnight” had seen perhaps the greatest sight there lay in not alone the Empery but in the Œconomion to be seen. Yet these Great Mysteries might be availed solely because certain men and women of known name and family had arranged for them to be availed. And besides, Vergil had already been some while ago made free of the Eleusinian bridehood and the groomhood, a mystagogue was he, of that and of other mysteries, perhaps lesser known, if not, who shall say: less worthy He had heard the oracles speaking, squeaking, sighing, soughing, groaning, droning from out the chauldrons high in high Dordona’s oakengroves.

  And he had learned, through his stay amongst the Lotophages, that balm perpetual for sorrow there was not. Tempted by scent and taste, and with valor born of ignorance, he had drunk so deeply of the liquor of the Scarlet Fig (not yet knowing it to be just that) that he had not even cared upon observing that he had been cast away. Through repeated draughts of the enchanting liquid he had indeed forgot his native land; almost he had forgotten his own language. And for a while he had certainly forgotten the usages of civil man; of man in the complex and civilized world. True that when among the Lotus Eaters he had suffered neither sorrow nor pain, and he had forgotten not alone his concerns and longings and worries: he had forgotten the very conceptions of sorrow, pain, concern and worry. But something there was within him which would not allow him tarry among the naked gentle Lotophages, forgetful of almost all things. Even the Lotophages did long for the comfort of the fruit and drink of the lotus; even, they desired the comfort of the fire that burned at night — though precisely whence they had recovered fire when their own inexorable lentor allowed their single fire to fade away, of this he had little notion.

  Something within him had pressed, pressed gently but pressed … after some while … insistently … and so he had left the gentle company of those who, as who had put it? nummed the honey-sweet lotus and drank its fragrant liquor. Huldah had said that. He had as it were torn himself away from the gentle company upon the coast, had forced himself to flee into the wilderness where dwelt the far from always gentle satyrs. Wild honey he had found none, but part of his new diet was locust rather than lotus: the pods of the locust tree, called also carob, or acacia. And, slowly, oh so slowly, his mind had cleared. The mists and fogs had slowly been blown away. Once again he was in the midst of the island folk and gazing at a ship far out at sea.

  Little though the Romans loved the sea and little though Vergil had been accustomed to judge of such matters, still, he felt to a certainty that this was not the same ship which had marooned him here. But he felt no such certainty that this vessel would of a certainty put in to this haven. Perhaps they knew not the nature of the land. Perhaps they knew very well and for that reason particularly desired to avoid it. Or … merely … perhaps their course lay elsewhere and they simply had no reason to divert or diverge.

  No certainty.

  Much perhaps.

  Why was he of a sudden striding away from the point whereat he stood? Memory of a previous scene moved his legs and feet, was why. Memory of a more than half fallen-down hutch, doubtless intended for a cabin by some alien long ago: alien, for sure these islanders built no structures at all. Were the nights uncommon cool, simply they slept together … not, to be sure, in one great huddled mass … but rather parted into smaller groups which lay, all of a cuddle, each group by an each. Or else: they crept close together to the fire that burns by night, and fed it, many times and often, while the stars moved: for of fallen wood there was no lack where their groves and small forests grew: and of driftwood upon the beach, which had mayhap grown in far Aspamia or in (even) farthermost Thule, where there is little need for wooden fuel, there being (so men say) stones of black ice which burns like pitch-pine: pyrobolim***, so some call them.

  And in that withering hovel found he … what? His old soft doe-skin budget, for one. And a mass of rags roughly sewn together so as to form a semblance of a cape: this was none of his.

  But twould do.

  Here (or, there) was the fire that burns by night. Level daylight it was not, yet the fire burned. Now and then someone passing by languidly fed it; eventually that someone, any someone, every someone, would forget to feed it — how ancient this image of fire as a living thing which craved food and must be fed! — forgotten, it would dwindle and die: then see once again that scene of some man, braver or keener of wit than others, swift run along the main to whatever was their only known source of fire (for as to rubbing hard wood against soft, let alone the sophisticated spark of flint and steel and tinder: certes they knew nought). The old cape, almost coming apart in his hands, was fitter for tinder than for any use of clothing, but he had yet another use for it. Swift he sopped it in a shallow pool nearby, swift he wrung it out till it was but damp. Slowly, slowly, the column of smoke rose up, rose up. He cast the sodden cape upon it.

  The column of smoke ceased, was estopped.

  At once he swept the cloak away.

  The smoke at once arose again.

  Once more he covered it with the ragged cloak, that cape of rags.

  Again the column of smoke was stopped.

  Then he culled the mass of rotting cloth away, cast it aside.

  The smoke rose and rose: unvexed again, it rose upon the sleepy air.

  * Some say this cometh from the Magno Homero, but The Matter sayeth not.

  ** So sayeth The Matter: see the Pliny his Liber XXII

  *** One text of The Matter gives terrabolim, that is: earth-balls. Balls made of earth? Balls found in earth? Another text gives pyrobolim, that is fire-balls. Luarer: Balls made of fire? Balls found in fire? The Ragusa Codex glosses: coal; this but begs the question, coal being singular of coals, the common form. One naturally asks, Coals of what? “Coals of fire” is to say “fires of fire.” It is well-known that the bolim consist in forms male and female, the conjunction of the both alone creating fire. Yet we must further ask, are these “coals” animal
, vegetable, or mineral? Earth, air, fire, water? That air and water do not burn contradicts the belief of the learned Jew, Apella. But further The Matter sayeth not, save othioth porchoth; and no one knows what meaneth this.

  X

  Isle Mazequa

  Far out at sea, the thin vertical line which was a ship’s mast slowly, slowly turned, became broader by the width of a sail. Slowly grew broader, larger, nearer.

  When he once again gained the beach, it was to see something like a sort of trade going on. These seamen were Sards, he was sure of it: those curious and deliberately lop-sided hats — bonnets, one might almost call them; the wrapped-twice-around-yet-still-loose neckerchiefs of faded red, the yellowish-brown trews — slanders of other seamen traditionally had it that these garments, coming only three-quarters of the way down the legs, had always been originally white but were never washed; Vergil knew their hue came from rough and home-made dye: and then, too, a certain look, undescribable as it was unmistakable: all proclaimed them Sards. There was, to be sure, a certain class of Sard freebooters, but they were not numerous. And certainly the look of these was merely rough, as was the everyday look of poor folk on every day not a festival day; rough, yes … but not ruffianly. Certain things were being passed from hand to hand; he recognized the pearly, opalescent sheen of moonstones, and the fine striking colors of as yet un-cut tourmalines. These one saw fairly often in Lotusland and the island-folk themselves sometimes picked them up and carried them away as idly as children with any unusual rocks or stones. Likely the Lotophages played some simple game with them … and then simply dropped them: there were always more … somewhere …

  The Sards, in exchange, were passing over all sorts of rubble: mirrors shattered past hope of sale or trade in any ordinary mart in the whole Œconomium, cups saunce handles though clearly handles they had once had, boxes with broken lids or nay lids at all, scraps of cloth more brightly colored than any of the crewmen’s trews or neckcloths, hats outmoded and much battered: all sorts of rubbish.

  When the supply of tourmaline and moonstone showed sign of running low, the Sards produced something as an inducement for more; more was forthcoming. The islanders had not been holding out, merely it had been a trouble to try and seek. Now here was something well-worth the trouble.

  The Lotophagi received the sweet wine with soft soft sounds of pleasure. They would not plant the vines nor trench them nor wed them to the poplar and the elm to hold up the grape-heavy branches; and certainly neither would they make them presses nor tred the wine-fruit out with their feet … though possibly if this had been made into a game for them, with music and with song, they might have done so. Briefly. Certainly they had no sophisticated tastes; they did not require hippocras, that vile mixture of very bad wines, itself sophisticate with many bad spices; neither had they developed the corrupt palate which fancies the taste of pitch in wine, and which actually prefers the wine of that sort of grape which was said to have naturally the taste of pine-sap. Wine, sweet wine, did not have to be very, very sweet for them to like it. With soft sounds of pleasure they received and drank of it.

  But by and by they did not trouble themselves to go in search of any more moonstone or tourmaline. There was no ivy mingled with the cheap, douce wine. It did not make the Lotophagi run mad, let alone turn anthropophagi like followers of certain drunken cults. Merely they layed them down to sleep.

  Of course to the inhabitants they were, for the moments that the novelty lasted, not rubbish at all. And if the hotchpotch and galimaufry was of no actual benefit to them … why, neither were the moonstones or the tourmalines for which they sold them. (Not that it was likely that they considered the matter in any other light than an exchange of presents: baubles for baubles, play-pretties for others of the same.) For that much, of what actual, intrinsic use were the tourmalines, the moonstones, or any other gems or jewels? none whatsoever: they could not be eaten, drunk, nor used as tools. Well … diamonds were sometimes so worked as to be able to cut glass … and an old word which Vergil seldom forgot was that in verbis et herbis et lapides — but here he suddenly dropped all thought of science or art or philosophy; one of the island folk taking notice of his presence with a slight word and slight gesture, see every man jack of the Sard shipmen turn as one. And of that sudden second, freeze.

  After a very long moment, one of them (later he learned it was Polycarpu the captain of the craft — it was a small-enough craft, too —) spoke, not without a moving up and down of the apple in his thick neck. His words were in a tone clearly meant to be conciliatory, but Vergil noted well how the seamen, the shipmen, slowly gan to fan out as though to encircle him. “As you may see, me Lord Ser, we are only small folk,” he said … in Punic! surely no folk he had ever encountered, the same being of the “old sea,” the Mediterranean, ever looked less like Punes! … “— small folk, a-trying to do a small deal in what’s they called, ‘semi-precious stones,’ such a trade, we believes, being entirely licit undern the rules of Great Cartage,” and the light burst upon Vergil: it was not that they were Pune, it was that they thought that he was! And, despite his own better nature, he reckoned to have a little sport with them.

  “Such being the case,” he endeavored to make his own Sidonian sound as much like Carthagan as he might: no great hard thing, for constant commerce between the old Phoenician cities and the new had kept them from shifting and changing much; “… being the case, how is’t that you have endeavored also to deal in … purple …?”

  In a moment he regretted having tried the jape, for the man turned absolutely yellow; had he been of ruddy color, he would have turned white. At once Vergil swift began in Latin, “Nay, but take no notice of my very bad manners, I am a Latin man, the same as you, a citizen of Rome,” briefly he thought of groping in his budget for the old badge of bull’s hide, SQPR, Senatusque Populusque Romanum estamped upon it; but forbore. “— and no Pune at all,” see the natural tan of sea and sun return to the shipman’s face; “and as for whatsoever kind of trade is yours, I care not, for —”

  “But you be a mage! else how could you know —?”

  Vergil gestured. “I see that some leaves of orchil-flowers have been near enough t’ your wristband to have been crushed upon it … added but a few drops of water, likely when you took a drink, added but a bit of lime, perhaps from a cargo of it: and the result? a smear or smudge of violet color … well … violet color once. And if indeed you propose to make navigations in waters where Carthage, old or new …” He did not finish the sentence. “Violet is not indeed true purple, but … another shirt is what I should suggest.”

  The man stretched his arm to see the stain plain, swore, made as if to remove it on the spot, somewhat relaxed.

  “ ‘Not indeed true purple,’ no, but near enough to run this sark red, be any Carthagan ships about. Lord Ser, me thanks for a-pointing of it out, I never gave thought … Well, I shall cut and burn this damned wristband in another minute. I say, nay: but only a mage could have discerned of it, and coupled twain and twain thegether.”

  His men whispered, muttered, growled. But there were no more movements hinting at encirclement. Said one, in a speaking-tone at last, “If that be clare from just a spackle on a wristband, best we’d best wash and scrape the deck, and check they tayckle for some other tell-tale taint.”

  And another urged, “And afore doing of that, be better best to hug up all the orchil and give it to offering for nap tewm —”

  “Nap tewm?” asked Vergil.

  “Th’owd king. Owd King Naptewm, a whose beard is green, they’m say, and smell’s o’ fish. E nows the dipth of every sea. Better ‘e gets all o’ it than the Cartage men take owt o’ it, and ang us on a tree, such is they manner and wont —”

  And yet another shipman uttered his own caution. “After cutting of our hentrials out and grilling same as a relish for they savage dogs.”

  But the thick-necked man, and it seemed his neck grew thicker, all but roared his scorn. “You knew what barber we
might be trimmed by when you came aboard this adventured navigation! Stay here, then, if you like, and give surrender to your lay of the cargo as lies hid beneath the jars of limekilned and burnded oyster-shells! Stay here, and drink yourselves sotty until you’ve forgotten use of tongue and tool and wander naked as any —”

  Very suddenly he stopped and turned a deeper shade and attempted to pretend that, suddenly, no one was aware that Vergil was naked as any islander: that is, as the days they all were born — save only that no natal-cord dangled a-peep from out a belly-band. And, for that matter, neither did they (or he) have even upon them so much as else a belly-band.

  Quietly he said, “You will do as you will do. Only but I caution you to taste no drop of this sweet ruddy nectar of the lotus, for I drank of it, I was marooned because of it, and I am naked, now, because of it. I dwell at Naples; is it possible that you can give me a passage in that way?”