The Elementals

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “I hear you had an important visitor from the palace yesterday,” Dendria said with barely concealed envy when she met Tulipa at the well the next morning.

  Tulipa affected nonchalance. She yawned, she patted her hair, she studied her nails. “Oh, yes? My Meriones knows everyone who matters.” Balancing her filled water jug on her head, she walked away, swaying her hips.

  Several days later, Hokar mentioned that his cousin Tereus, who was captain of a sizable trading vessel, should be arriving in the Cretan harbor soon. “You would enjoy meeting him, I think. He’s very full of life, is Tereus; he’s been everywhere and seen everything and he tells great stories.”

  “We’ll invite him to my house for dinner,” Meriones decided, flushed with his recent social success.

  Tulipa was not hard to convince. She was wearing Hokar’s silver bracelet, which she had shown several times to Dendria and Lydda. This Tereus might bring her something even better.

  On the appointed evening, Hokar came straight from the palace with Meriones, and the two settled in the courtyard to await Tereus. They did not wait for long. A brawny man with a jutting jaw pounded on the outer door. When Tulipa opened to him, he scarcely noticed her. Looking past her into the interior of the house, he bellowed, “Hokar! Where are you?” At an answering shout from the courtyard, he pushed past Tulipa and found his own way to the rear of the house.

  She trotted after him, wide-eyed with indignation.

  Hokar got to his feet as Tereus appeared in the doorway. “Meriones, this is my cousin Tereus, captain of the Qatil out of Byblos,” he said.

  Tereus filled the doorframe with his broad shoulders. Vitality radiated from him like heat from a brazier. He made Meriones feel insignificant, and when his brilliant blue eyes swept over her household Tulipa received a distinct impression of contempt. This was a man who demanded much. Whatever life was lived in the house of Meriones, the musician was insufficient for his appetites.

  He was polite enough in his unpolished way, however, and thanked Meriones—though not Tulipa—for receiving him. As the three men sat at the table Tereus had great tales to tell of ocean voyages and sea monsters and terrifying storms. His stories were so vivid Meriones often forgot to eat, sitting with his mouth agape and the food congealing on his plate.

  When Tulipa finished serving the men she drew up a chair to the table for herself, so she could listen to Tereus. His accent was no thicker than Hokar’s, and she understood most of what he said.

  She understood very clearly when he remarked, “Only on Crete do women dare sit at the table with the men. Elsewhere they know their place and keep it.”

  Tulipa’s cheeks burned. She looked to Meriones, expecting him to defend their customs, but he only stared at his plate and toyed with his uneaten food.

  Snatching up her husband’s plate, Tulipa strode furiously into the house.

  “That’s better,” said Tereus. “Women get in the way of serious conversation. Meriones, my cousin tells me you have served in the house of The Minos for a long time.”

  “Since I was old enough to take off my waist-shaper.”

  “Then you have good knowledge of the place, of its staffing, the habits of its purchasing agents, and so forth?”

  Meriones had been surprised, and secretly, guiltily pleased at Tereus’ handling of Tulipa. And he was flattered at the way the ship’s captain made him feel important, privy to the inner workings of the House of the Double Axes. “Oh yes,” he said, waving his hands. “I know all the stewards, the keepers of the stores, everyone.”

  “Hokar said he thought you might. You are the very man I need, then.” Tereus leaned forward, folding his thick arms on the tabletop. His voice dropped to a more confidential tone. “I have a very special cargo from my last voyage and I would like to sell it here, to the household of The Minos. A sea king can afford the kind of price which would give me enough money to buy my own ship at last, and not have to bow my head to some Syrian owner who never sets foot on deck.”

  There was something about the emphasis Tereus put on his words that made Meriones nervous. “If you have a valuable cargo I suppose the quartermaster already suggested the best market when you cleared it through him? And the ship’s owner—a Syrian, you said—will he not get the profit?”

  Tereus and Hokar exchanged glances. The goldsmith gave a barely perceptible nod. “Meriones is all right,” he said softly.

  Tereus dropped his eyelids halfway over his eyes so their expression was veiled. “I have not discussed this particular cargo with the harbormaster, Meriones. Do you understand? Nor will it be reported at Byblos. There is a bit of profit in it for you, too, if you keep your mouth shut and put me in contact with the right buyer. Would you not like to have a bit of wealth to impress your wife?”

  Meriones felt his mouth go dry. “What is your cargo?”

  Tereus smiled lazily and leaned back, resting his broad shoulders against the plastered wall behind his chair. “My last voyage was through the Pillars of Herakles and then north, following the coast,” he said. “A dangerous trip into unpredictable waters. Not many are willing to make it. Our final destination was to be the lands at the edge of winter, where people collect lumps of raw amber on the seashore after storms. To trade for amber, we took flint from the Islands of Mist.”

  “You have been to the Islands of Mist?” Meriones asked in an awed whisper.

  “Of course. We started from Byblos with timber and jade, and pearls from Dilmun. These we traded along the way for obsidian, for copper, then for Nubian ivory, and that in turn went for textiles and bronze which we traded in the Islands of Mist for tin and flint and, on the westernmost island, gold.”

  Meriones’ existence was circumscribed by the luxurious, enclosed atmosphere of palace life. But Crete was the land of the sea kings, so he had heard tales of the far places beyond the horizon, tales of Ugarit and Mitanni and Assyria, of wild Iberia and fabled Babylon. Now he was looking at a man who had personally sailed to the very kingdom of winter, where blond giants farmed steep fields and amber lay free for the taking on rocky beaches. Meriones strained to envision a land of deep fjords and long blue silences.

  But he was more interested in the Islands of Mist. “My grandmother came from the Islands of Mist,” he said.

  Tereus lifted his eyebrows. “As a slave? Then you understand what sort of cargo I brought this time. I hope you won’t be offended when I say the best slaves are from those rainy islands. Their skin is very white and they are highly prized throughout the Mediterranean. I try to pick up a few good ones each voyage, to sell privately.”

  Meriones suffered confused emotions. Slavery was very much a part of life, and central to Cretan economy, as it was everywhere in the Mediterranean. Thousands were traded each year at places like Kythera, where men dealt in nothing else. But, remembering his grandmother, he found it hard to think of people like her as if they were merely cargo, so many cattle to buy and sell. “Is that this special, valuable cargo, then?” he asked Tereus. “Captives taken from the Islands of Mist?”

  “Yes. Five of them, three females and two males. The females are young, very pretty. They would be valuable anywhere. But the men … that is, one of them … ah, this one is something very special.

  “If your grandmother came from those islands, what do you know about them?” Tereus asked Meriones.

  “Only a little. How green they were, how mild the climate. How many lakes and rivers they had.”

  “It is the inhabitants who are interesting,” Tereus said. “They are strong and brave and are ruled by warrior princes. In some ways they remind me of Thracians. But they live intimately with gods I do not know: water gods, weather gods, gods of the wild places. And they build stone ritual centers with as much engineering skill as the Egyptians, though in a very different style. I have seen nothing anywhere that raises my hackles like the great stone circles in the Islands of Mist.

  “One of the slaves I brought back with me this time is some sort of pri
est. Not such a priest as you have here. I believe theirs is a fading race, though once it may have been very powerful. Their sorcerers can still do things to freeze a man’s marrow. This old fellow should be worth a fortune as a worker of magic, or at least a royal diviner. For all I know the old man can predict the shaking of the earth, which would make him beyond price, eh? And even if he fails in that he can do a lot of other tricks.”

  Meriones was shocked. “You would take a priest and sell him as an entertainer?”

  “I would sell the woman who bore me if she were still alive and the sale would enable me to buy my own ship and be answerable to no man.

  “Your mother would cheerfully cut your throat if you tried such a thing,” Hokar interjected.

  “My mother was a proud woman and a warrior in her own right. She would have understood my desire to be my own master.”

  Meriones was frowning. “I just don’t like the idea of selling priests as slaves. Angering the gods is dangerous.”

  Tereus said, “His gods aren’t our gods, I told you that. Besides, if I can turn over a cargo twelve times in a voyage and avoid the pirates of Mycenae, I fear nothing.”

  “But—”

  “Never mind, just do as I tell you and fortune will smile on us. The gods of whatever land support the successful, have you not noticed? Put me in contact with someone at the palace who is empowered to purchase slaves—expensive, unusual slaves, by private treaty—and I will present my treasures for his inspection. Here, at your house.”

  Meriones was startled. “Why at my house? Why not take them direct to Labrys?”

  “They are, shall we say, unpredictable. Especially the old man. Hokar tells me you know a little of the language they speak, so I want you present throughout the negotiations to persuade them to be cooperative. It will all go more smoothly here, in a private house.”

  Watching Meriones closely, Tereus assessed his exact degree of resistance. He immediately poured another bowl of wine for Meriones, saying, “And of course I will pay you extra for the use of your house. Agreed? Good, good!”

  When Tereus left them for a few moments to go and relieve himself behind the wall, Meriones said to Hokar, “I always seem to be letting people talk me into things. I can never say no when I should. I admire your cousin. I doubt if he has that problem.”

  “He has others,” Hokar replied. “Is there any more wine?”

  Meriones gazed solemnly into the pitcher Tulipa had left on the table. “It’s empty,” he reported with regret. “But I think we have some milk flavored with kinnamon.”

  “Milk!” Tereus guffawed as he returned to them. “Men don’t drink milk, even flavored with spices! Once this deal is concluded, my wasp-waisted friend, you’ll be able to afford amphorae of wine, one for every day of the week.” He clapped Meriones heartily on the back.

  Much later, in the privacy of their bed, Meriones made the mistake of telling Tulipa about Tereus’ offer.

  “You certainly are going to help that big Thracian sell his slaves!” she insisted, sitting bolt upright in the bed. “If you don’t, I’ll go back and live with my mother!”

  For a moment—only for a moment—Meriones was tempted.

  After several false starts when his courage deserted him, Meriones spoke to Carambis, Master of Slaves, and a meeting was arranged. Carambis had been party to such deals before and knew exactly how much padding could be concealed within the price he would ultimately collect from the palace treasurer. A nice little profit would be made all around, if the slaves lived up to their description. The new Minos was known to have a taste for exotics.

  Tereus’ men were to bring the slaves from the ship to Meriones’ house before dawn on the appointed day, and hold them there until Carambis arrived for the inspection. Tulipa disliked having so many strangers under her roof, but the promised commission placated her.

  Meriones had less easily dismissed reservations.

  When he heard the muffled knocking at the street door in the predawn darkness, he thought for the tenth time, I wish I had not agreed to this. Tulipa burrowed more deeply into the bed and pretended not to hear, so it was Meriones who padded downstairs on bare feet and opened the door.

  Four husky seamen pushed past him into the small passage opening onto the megaron. The area was filled with the stench of their unwashed bodies. Meriones was aware of huddled forms being dragged and shoved with them, and the thump of a fist on someone’s back. He lifted his bronze night-lantern in an effort to make out faces, but only succeeded in casting distorted menacing shadows on the walls, figures that gesticulated like dark frescoes come to life.

  Tulipa joined them in the megaron. She shrank against the wall and rolled her eyes at Meriones.

  “It’s all right,” he assured her with a total lack of conviction. “These men are from Tereus, with the, ah, guests, we talked about.”

  One of the seamen grinned, a flash of broken yellow teeth in a swarthy face. “Guests, is it?” he mimicked. “Look at this one.” He thrust one of the bound, cloaked figures into the lantern light and uncovered its head. “You have strange tastes if you invite people like this to be your guests.”

  A thin old man stood blinking before them. He was taller than either Meriones or Tulipa, as tall as any of Tereus’ men. His gaunt face looked like wrinkled parchment stretched tight over a skull. A fringe of white beard edged his jawbone, then slanted upward to meet the tangle of his uncut hair. His eyes were set deep in cavernous sockets. When they accepted the light and were able to focus he turned their full glare on Meriones. Strange eyes, colorless, burning with a life more intense than any other in the room.

  Meriones involuntarily took a step backward.

  The old man murmured something and struggled to free his hands. Instantly his captor pulled the cloak over his face and spun him around to face the wall. “Here, that’s enough of that,” he warned. To Meriones he said, “You don’t want to let him look at you too long, or make those signs with his hands.”

  Tulipa asked in a harsh whisper, “Why not?”

  “It’s just better if you don’t,” the man replied. “I am Jaha Fe, third officer on the Qatil. My men and I will stay here and guard these guests of yours. Is there anything to eat while we wait?”

  Without complaints for once, Tulipa hurried away to prepare food. When she was gone, Jaha Fe winked at Meriones. “Now these women, they could be guests in my pallet any time. Want to see?”

  Meriones nodded, though his eyes kept straying to the cloaked figure of the old man. Jaha Fe unwrapped the nearest woman and pushed her toward the light.

  She was beautiful, even by Cretan standards. Her skin was as luminous as seafoam.

  “I think she’s the daughter of the old man,” Jaha Fe said. “Or granddaughter, could be.”

  Her frightened glance skittered about the room until she met Meriones’ eyes. He offered a shy smile. She said something in reply.

  Meriones struggled with the scattered fragments of childhood memories, put together a few words, discarded them and tried again. A sound emerged that might have been the sighing of wind in the cypresses of Knsos, a confusion of sibilants and aspirants that startled him as much as anyone else. But the girl flashed a grin of acknowledgment and replied in the same tongue.

  “What’s she saying?” Jaha Fe demanded to know. “Get her to tell you her name.”

  Sweating, for the heat had returned to Crete, Meriones struggled with the forgotten language of his grandmother. His words came haltingly, but his understanding of the language improved as he listened to the girl. “She is called Ebisha,” he translated at last, pleased with himself. “It means something like … Green Eyes.”

  “And she does have them!” Jaha Fe exclaimed. A roll of laughter relieved the tension in the room.

  Meriones did not go to the palace that day. Even if he had not been instructed to wait for Carambis to come and inspect the slaves, he would have been unwilling to leave his wife alone in the house with the Thracian seamen
.

  He spent his time in conversation with Ebisha, who was pitifully eager to talk now that she had someone who could understand. She spoke with longing of her lost land, a land of many tribes, ruled by warrior chieftains who were very much under the influence of the priests. According to Ebisha, the inhabitants of the Islands of Mist were obsessed with the supernatural. They envisioned a community of spirits freely mingling with the living, interacting with them as if both seen and unseen were members of one ongoing community. This concept was inexplicable to the Cretan mind, whose vision of the netherworld was a simplistic paradise.

  Ebisha told Meriones of priests who manipulated the power in the standing stones that dotted the islands, drawing down that power in some extraordinary fashion to make crops grow and heal the sick and control the weather to their advantage. This was not magic, she insisted, when Meriones tried to apply that term to the priests’ actions.

  “Not magic,” Ebisha said. “Priests use … what is. Earth, fire, water, stone. They know how to use. They … shape. Make happen by shaping. My grandsire”—she nodded toward the old man—“he makes happen.”

  Meriones looked toward the tall, gaunt figure that was still standing immobile, facing the wall. He shuddered. It was as if something alien, cold beyond cold, had come into his warm little house.

  Tereus arrived before Carambis. There was no mistaking the way Ebisha’s face lit up when she saw him, though the other slaves turned their faces away from him. “He is like a chieftain of my own people,” she told Meriones. “As soon as I saw him I wanted him to put his hands on me. I knew he wanted it too.”

  “Did he … on the ship?” Meriones asked, surprised to find the thought angered him.

  “No. But he will, he will.” She looked past Meriones to Tereus and smiled.

  Tereus was paying no attention to her. Instead he had the old priest brought before him and asked Meriones his opinion of the man’s saleability. The priest stood silently, glaring out of his skull-like face, eyes blazing with a light that might have been madness or even the manifestation of a god. Once, perhaps, they had been as green as Ebisha’s, but all color had long since been burnt out of them by the heat of the spirit within.