“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just that I know how-generous you are. Well, I’m sure my visit won’t change his habits. It’s Icarus I mainly want him to see. After all, he’s the child’s Zeus-father. And to tell the truth, I want Icarus to see him. You’d be amazed that such a little child could miss anyone so much.”
“I wouldn’t be amazed at all, when that someone is Eunostos. As a matter of fact, I’ve noticed that Icarus has looked a bit peaked for the last two months. Now he’s not even gurgling. He looks almost like”-I started to say Thea. “Almost subdued. Yes, I’ll keep Thea for you, but she’s starting to look uncomfortable, as many times as she’s been here.”
“Tell her a story about the Bears of Artemis. The nice ones, not Phlebas’s band. I won’t be long.”
“As long as you’re going, you might as well stay awhile. Otherwise, you’ll disappoint Eunostos.” But she had already gone.
She entered the gate, unlatched as usual, and paused before she lifted the door-hanging to his house. She wanted to see him entirely too much. Perhaps, she thought, if I turn very quietly and tiptoe out the gate-It was too late. Icarus emitted a happy chortle.
There was nothing to do but enter the room. Apparently Eunostos had been kneeling beside his fountain to feed his turtle, the one with which he had replaced his wedding present to Kora and Aeacus, but he was already on his hooves and starting for the door to meet her.
He had dropped a platter of baked flies in the water (he trapped them on parchment dipped in honey) and he looked at her and Icarus as if they had returned from an audience in the Underworld with the Griffin Judge.
“I couldn’t bring both children,” she explained. “Zoe is staying with Thea.”
He lifted Icarus from the quiver and hugged him so tightly that she thought: he is going to break a rib.
But Icarus returned the hug with equal enthusiasm and refused to leave Eunostos’s arms. For an instant she envied her child. There was such a wonderful reciprocity between him and Eunostos: a spontaneous and unstinting affection. And the thought, quickly erased from her mind, prodded her, goaded her: except for my dream, except for my dream… Now she did not even permit herself an embrace. It might be misunderstood; it might recall the rejected thought.
“It’s been two months,” she said. It was not a reproach-Aeacus after all was to blame-but a lament.
“And two days.”
“Eunostos, let’s sit in the garden. Did the rosebush grow after you fed it the potash?”
“It’s the biggest in the garden now.” He was patting Icarus and tousling his hair; at the same time he was staring at Kora with an ardor which he could no longer mask as brotherliness.
There were mossy chairs among the columbine, their legs entwined with creepers and looking as if they too might have grown in that garden of sweet familiarity. Side by side they sat in the sun-warm morning and the inarticulateness of their long separation was like a gate between them. Even Icarus seemed to feel their constraint and sighed in Eunostos’s arms.
“Is it better in your tree now that I don’t come? I mean-”
“You mean is Aeacus more content? I don’t know, Eunostos. I don’t think so. He doesn’t talk to me very often. He smiles and nods and rocks Thea in her cradle and then goes hunting or to call on Chiron. Are you-are you happy with your girls?”
“Oh, I make do,” he said, shuffling his hoof.
“Do you bring them here?”
“No.” The answer was abrupt and decisive. “I built this house for you.” He hesitated. “Do you still love him, Kora?”
“Yes. I want to be with him even when he’s silent and I can’t read his silence.” It was true, in a way, and something else was also true. It was not meant to be spoken, but her tongue, silent too many years, betrayed her now. “But I love you too, and so do the children!”
“Icarus maybe.”
“And Thea, if she only had the chance.”
She took his hand. Such a big, rough hand, and yet what slender fingers he had! It was no wonder that he could make a poem out of wood, an elegy out of a chair or a toy. It was a sisterly gesture, she persuaded herself. She had not embraced him, this rough carpenter with the heart of a poet. She had never embraced him, even when he had rescued her from Saffron. But in this slight endearment she felt enfolded by all of his boyishness-turned-adult. For an instant-for more than an instant-she envied those light-headed, lighthearted Dryads who had enjoyed his more than brotherly kisses. It was all very well to love a dream; it was like drinking a great flagon of long-buried wine and feeling as if you could step from one treetop to the next. But then the sparkle and the lightness evaporated like dew on a maple leaf. To love a Minotaur was like eating a loaf of wheaten bread soaked with honey; there was no sparkle but there was a sweet and enduring nourishment.
“Icarus isn’t a bit bigger,” said Eunostos. “Oughtn’t he to have grown in the last two months?”
“He doesn’t eat as much as he did. He misses you. Now we have to go, Eunostos.” She had already betrayed Aeacus with her thoughts; she must not risk a worse betrayal.
“No, please, I have to find a present for Icarus first.” He clutched the child as if he were protecting him from a blast of wintry wind or a pack of wolves.
“He’s had his present. Coming to see you. Now he wants to give you one.”
Icarus held to Eunostos’s horns and implanted a wet kiss on his cheek.
“When will you come again?” The question was addressed equally to her and Icarus.
“I don’t know.”
“When may I come to see you? Aeacus didn’t say I could never come again.”
“I don’t know that either, Eunostos.”
He hurried into his workshop and returned with the feathered cap he had made for Thea, but made too large. But it fitted Icarus perfectly because of his hair, which doubled the size of his head.
Eunostos stood in the gate and waved his hand. Icarus waved his cap and then he began to cry. His mother hurried him into the trees. It was fortunate that she knew the trail so well; all the way home, she never looked up from the ground.
Aeacus had returned ahead of them. He was hanging his bow on the wall.
“I shot a bear,” he said. “If you salt the meat, we can have steaks all winter.”
“We don’t eat bears in the Country of the Beasts.”
“Suit yourself. Where have you been?”
“To visit Zoe.”
“I see that Icarus has a new cap.”
“Eunostos made it. He left it at Zoe’s house.”
Did he believe her? If he did not believe her, was he annoyed, angry, enraged? In all this time, she was still unable to penetrate his impassive smile. And yet she felt that in his strange, civilized fashion he still cared for her. It was not exactly love; it was the gentle and faintly condescending affection which sometimes survives the disappointment of losing a dream.
That night he lay beside her on their couch and held her hand and kissed her cheek.
“Kora,” he said. “Maiden. You called to me across the dark spaces of the night and I came to you. Was I right to come? I’m still an invader, you know. I’m not a Beast.”
“I wanted you to come.”
“But are you still glad?”
“Yes, Aeacus.” She answered without a pause but with a certainty which she did not feel.
“Then so am I. We have had good years. We mustn’t regret them. And you have given me royal children.”
He was quiet then. His hand relaxed its hold; he seemed to fall into a quiet sleep. She kissed his cool forehead, loving him in her way, though still not knowing him-this lover and stranger; but not, in spite of the vows he had sworn before Chiron, her husband-never truly her husband. Maiden had become wife and mother for a Man who had remained an alien and a wanderer.
She awoke to find him gone, and the children with him.
Luckily I found her before she had left her tree. I had been concerned about the con
sequences of her visit to Eunostos, though I had not anticipated quite so dire and sudden an outcome.
“It’s a long way to Knossos,” she said, “and I won’t be able to carry much. A little food: a flask of wine and a cheese. And acorns to last me for a week.” She had not been crying; she had not taken time for tears. She was not even angry. She was lost.
“It will take you three solid days to reach Knossos. You’ll never find your children and get back to your tree alive!”
“I may overtake them on the way. He’s burdened with the children.”
“And if you do, how can you stop him?”
“I can’t stop him but I can ask him to leave my children. Let him go, if he must, but leave my children.”
“He won’t listen to you. I won’t let you go, Kora.”
“You can easily stop me,” she said. “You have the strength. But you will have to kill me. Will you do that, Zoe?”
I looked into her face and saw, for the first time, the utter implacability of a Dryad who had remained a girl too long and become a woman too quickly and meant what she said. I saw an unreasoning courage which, if rebuffed, might become madness.
“I’m going to get Eunostos,” I said. “Wait for me till I bring him back. You can surely do that much for me. Together we’ll think what to do.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Ankles be damned,” I swore, and ran like Artemis at the hunt-ran all the way to Eunostos’s trunk and fell in a heap at his gate.
“Aeacus has taken the children.”
“Where?” It was his only question. He did not seem surprised, but anguish lashed him like the branch of a fir tree. I expected him to scream.
“Toward Knossos,” I said. “Go after her. I’ll follow when I get my wind back.”
I overtook them where the forest opens onto the field. At least Eunostos had held her until my arrival, but she was even now breaking free of him, a tall, resolute figure encumbered only with a wicker basket and striding toward the Country of Men.
“Listen,” I shouted after her. “How do you think you can get to Knossos? You’ve never been out of the forest!” She paused until I caught up with her. She had no words for me, but I had made her think. “Do you know what the Cretan rustics say of Beasts? They fear and despise us. They frighten naughty children with stories about our cannibalism. They would capture or kill you.”
Her face was that of a bewildered little girl. “I could hide my ears and hair,” she protested. “Dirty my cheeks and pass for a peasant going to market.”
“And die before you found your children. How long do you think you can live away from your tree?”
“But I’m not bound to a tree,” cried Eunostos. “I can go anywhere. I’ll get your children for you, Kora!”
“And how are you going to disguise yourself short of a funeral shroud? Horns on one end and hooves on the other! You sound like Partridge.”
“I don’t need a disguise. One good bellow will send those rustics scurrying like Bear Girls chased by a bear.”
“And if you get to Knossos?”
“The Cretans aren’t monsters. Not the city folk, anyway. The king is said to be a fair-minded Man. I’ll ask him to make Aeacus return the children.”
“And you think he’ll listen to you? His own brother’s children, heirs to the throne?”
“I don’t know. At least he might let them spend half the year with Kora. But we have to do something, don’t we?”
“Yes, we do. We’ll go together, Eunostos, you and I. I’ll be the peasant, not Kora, and I’ll find a way to smuggle you into the city. You’re right, the king is fair. He will probably refuse you but I don’t think he will harm you. If he does refuse, then it will be my turn to act. I won’t ask, I will steal back what has been stolen.”
“But they’re my children,” Kora cried. “You’re making plans as if I didn’t exist!”
“Kora,” I reminded her. “I am approximately seventeen times your age. I can stay away from my tree a good two weeks without so much as getting a headache. What is more, I am something of a traveler. I have been to the coast with Achaeans and I took a short voyage on one of their ships. Once, I even dyed my hair with umber from the banks of the Beaver Lake, combed it over my ears, and went to Knossos with a Cretan sailor who had taken my fancy. For a solid week, he showed me around the city-taverns, bull ring, theater, palace, everything. I was downright faint before I got back to my tree, but I didn’t regret a minute. There is no more to be said if you want your children back. Swallow your pride and turn their rescue over to experts.”
Perhaps it was wicked of me to feel a strange exhilaration even while Kora was grieving for her lost children and I sincerely and deeply felt her loss. But then I never claimed to be the Great Mother. I was nothing but a free-living Dryad who loved an adventure, amorous or martial. And loved Eunostos.
And so I prepared for my greatest adventure with my greatest friend.
CHAPTER XIII
Most of the Beasts had gathered at the edge of the forest to watch my departure. Chiron and his Centaurs, wives as well as husbands, had arrived en masse, with their beloved pigs hovering between their hooves; and the Bears of Artemis, forgetting their shyness, scurried around me in a frenzy of excitement and wanted me to add some berries, some honey, some catnip, to the already laden pouch suspended from my sash. There were others too: some thirty or more Dryads, who took turns trying to reassure Kora that Icarus and Thea, having a human father, would not suffer even if separated indefinitely from their tree; the better behaved Panisci, among them Partridge, who was close to tears because Eunostos was going to the Wicked City without him; the Bee Queen Amber, who had made a special contribution to my pouch; and of course Eunostos, flanked by his faithful Bion and three other Telchins. Phlebas and his band were conspicuously absent, and his special Girl, chomping insolently on a weed, had been heard to say that she hoped the children-spoiled things-were never recovered; it would serve them right to be eaten by the Knossians.
As for myself, I had stayed in my tree all night to absorb its vitalizing powers, which now permeated my body like a glow of wine, and to make my plans and preparations. I could not have slept even if I had taken the time.
Now I was ready. It was not a small thing to leave the Country of the Beasts. I had left in the past only when accompanied by one of my lovers and returned with depleted energy, even if enriched experience. It was not a small thing to leave my oak. There were wispy little oaks in the world of Cretans but they were not Dryad trees and who could say what small sustenance I might draw from them?
Kora separated herself from the band of Dryads and threw her arms around me. Her eyes were moist but she did not allow the tears to fall down her cheeks.
“It seems I’m one of those women to whom things happen. You’re one who makes things happen. Find my children for me, Zoe.” She looked incredibly pale and young; she was both the devoted mother, inseparable from hearth and loom, and the dreamer of the early days, though now bereft of her dream. The sight of her briefly sobered me from the intoxication of the adventure.
“I will, Kora,” I swore. “By the Great Mother’s breast, I will.” Confidence returned to me, and I felt that there was nothing in the forest or in the city which I could not accomplish, except become a fine, proper lady (or be loved by the one dearest to me).
Eunostos said nothing. There was nothing he needed to say. His smile said: “You and I, Aunt Zoe, who can stop us? Not those puny Cretans.” He planned to follow and overtake me that very night.
I held him by the horns-the intimate, loving gesture shown him in the past only by his mother, Kora, and little Icarus-and kissed his cheek.
“Be cautious. I don’t need to tell you to be courageous.”
And then I left the country, marching out into the meadow where Aeacus, three years ago, had fought his battle. The grass was soft beneath my sandals; butterflies, like winged buttercups, fluttered away from me and meadowed the air. It is a good
omen, I thought. The air has partaken of earth, and earth is my friend.
Omens can be deceptive.
I approached the farmhouse feeling-trepidation, did you expect me to say? Caution, perhaps? I refuse to be falsely modest. I approached with the complete assurance that I would get what I wanted, by wiles or sheer animal appeal, from the farmer: the stone-wheeled oxcart in which he carried his produce to Knossos and in which I would hide the undisguisable immensity of Eunostos. Of course I knew my limitations. Place me beside Kora and I was clay beside alabaster. But Cretan farmers were not acquainted with women like Kora. I glittered, I glistened, I rippled like a snake goddess in a breast-revealing gown which my Cretan lover had bought for me in Knossos. Compared to the average, woolen-garbed farmwife, I was a finely glazed cup beside a crude earthenware jug. I was, to be frank, sufficient to fill a farmer’s eye and make him drop his hoe.
This particular farmer was chopping wood with the rhythmic, leisurely motion of a man who had never known a bad harvest-not on rich Crete-or confronted Achaean marauders. His cart leaned against the blue, almost windowless thatched mud box which passed rather prettily for a house. His ox grazed in a neighboring pasture bosomed with hay ricks and besprinkled with daisies. Immediate theft was out of the question. Nor could I wait until night and make off with ox and cart without arousing either the farmer or the inevitable watchdog found in peasant homes. Cretan farmers are as wary as Bee queens, though for different reasons. They eat well on the fat of the land, but they own few possessions and guard them with a zeal enforced by pitchforks, hoes, and knives, to say nothing of dogs whose immediate ancestors roamed the forests and held their own with wolves. I must bide my time; I must wait till night, when Eunostos could creep out of the forest, some three miles away, and join me outside this very house. Meanwhile, however, I must beguile and ingratiate-and incapacitate the farmer and whatever family and animals he might possess.
He looked at me and dropped his ax. Evidently I had filled his eye, and his nostrils too, for he sniffed greedily at the myrrh in which I had bathed my face and breasts. He also looked at me with suspicion: what was this ample, not young but decidedly not superannuated woman doing in a bell-shaped skirt embroidered with conch shells and starfish and, boldness of boldness, in an open bodice which revealed, nay, accentuated and framed her two glories, her glowing pomegranates, her full moons, their nipples painted a titillating crimson to match her lips? Furthermore, I had ripped the gown in order to suggest an escape from bandits who had attempted my honor, and I had ripped in provocative places-a lure of thigh, a tantalization of leg. My hair, though brown with umber, scintillated with mica dust; my ears were concealed-at least their pointed tips-but the lobes were graced by big silver earrings, a loan from Amber, shaped like beehives and tinkling when I walked as if their inhabitants were about to take flight. I had touched enough kohl to my eyes and carmine to my cheeks to make me look not quite a courtesan, but at least a woman of experience, not a great lady but definitely not a peasant-perhaps a merchant’s wife whose husband was often at sea; in short, a woman with a roving eye and the wherewithal to rove.
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