The Corn King and the Spring Queen (5 page)

‘Gently, gently,' said one of them. ‘Remember, Tarrik, we are not powerless. You cannot be Chief alone. Harn Der, she is your daughter—what do you say?'

‘She is fully young yet,' said Harn Der; ‘she must make her wedding-dress first. Let the betrothal be when the Council wills. In summer we must all go to our lands, she with me to mine; after harvest—may all go well with it!—we will have the marriage.'

He looked hard at Tarrik, and Tarrik back at him. ‘What does she say?' asked Tarrik.

‘It is not for her to speak. Tomorrow the Council will find you a lucky day for your betrothal.'

Tarrik walked straight to the inner door and called: ‘Erif Der!' After a moment she came, her eyes on the ground. She had changed her dress; the new one was made of some
fine, Greek stuff, a very delicate, silvery linen web, crossed again and again with dozens of colours, yellows and blues and greens, and sometimes a metal thread, copper or gold, that held the blink of the candles. It stood out lightly all round her; her plaits hung forward from her bent head into the hollow of her breasts; her coat was of white fur, very short. She went and stood between Harn Der and Yellow Bull; just once she looked at Tarrik, a glance so quick that no one but he saw it. ‘Are you going to marry me when I choose?' he said. ‘Erif Der, answer me!'

But her voice was little more than a murmur. ‘I will do what my father chooses, Chief,' she said. And the Council nodded and whispered to one another: she was a good girl, as they would wish their own daughters to be; there was nothing odd about her.

‘Very well,' said Tarrik, ‘I'll let you win—this time! I thank you for allowing me to be your Chief still!' And he turned and went out into the sea-damp evening.

Harn Der wondered why he had said just that last thing; it was queer. … But no one else had noticed particularly; the Chief was always bad to deal with when he was crossed. Some of them stayed on for supper with Harn Der; they spoke of the marriage, hoped that the Chief might grow less wild, saying he was worse than a wild-cat to deal with now and would some day bring harm to Marob. And then they praised Erif Der for looks and modesty, and she waited on them and made little magics over their food and drink, and was amused to see one trying to shake out of his glass a spider that was not there, and another startled at his butter turning pink. When they were all gone, she and Berris went out too, and left her father and eldest brother together. ‘I did that very well,' said Harn Der. ‘I was not so ready that anyone might think there could be a plan, and not so cautious that they might remember it against me when he is not Chief any longer.'

‘But what will happen to him?' said Yellow Bull. ‘Will he be magicked enough not to care whether he is Chief or not? Otherwise he will be dangerous.'

‘Ah,' said Harn Der, ‘I have been thinking that too. Well, we shall see—alive or dead.'

‘Yes,' said Yellow Bull again. ‘I know you don't quite
believe in what you tell Berris; but still—he did promise to come and see my road.'

Y
ELLOW BULL HAD
ridden on ahead to warn his wife they were coming and bid her get her best food ready for them, and now Tarrik and Epigethes were quite alone in the afternoon, with the track stretching across the plain as far as they could see, in front and behind. In the distance, on the right, there was a flock of sheep grazing, but no shepherd in sight. Every now and then a large hawk would come circling near them, and sometimes they roused hares or grass rats from the tussocks beside their path.

Tarrik was riding a young horse that had never been properly broken; it shied at its own shadow and had already tried to bolt with him twice. But he was such a brilliant rider that it only made the day pass more amusingly, and now the horse was answering better to bridle and knee than it had in the morning. Epigethes was on the whole a bad rider, and out of practice; he was very stiff and sore, and far from Hellas. They did not talk much. Tarrik had started several conversations, but after a short time they always seemed to drop, or else something unpleasant would creep into them, a hint of too absolute power by the Chief, or Epigethes showing rather too much of that fear that was whispering painfully all round his heart, all the time, that had been there ever since the day the Chief of Marob had called him from the street, and afterwards he had tried to find a ship that was sailing … but there were none. He would have gone anywhere, to Olbia, to Tyras, north or south, given up all his plans; he offered fantastic prices; but no one seemed interested in him. And now—now this unknown fear was coming closer, he tried to keep his mouth and eyes still, knowing that this terrible Scythian would see any least movement, knowing exactly—so hard it is being even a bad artist—the slight flicker of pleasure that would go over the Chief's face, watching his own pain.

Every mile or so they passed great patches of wild-rose bushes, very sweet, and covered with butterflies; they were going downhill almost imperceptibly. By and bye they began to see the spreading of the marshes in front of them, the deeper green of reeds, the steel blue of still
waters curving among them. Soon they were near enough to be tormented by the mud-happy gnats and gadflies, their horses swerved and started and kicked and tried to roll. Epigethes was thrown once, and picked himself up with an aching head, and the feeling that the ground was getting softer and beginning to smell queer and rotten. There were plants with greyish, swollen leaves, and sometimes they saw the tracks of wild boar crossing their own way. They had to go carefully, keeping to the raised path; once they crossed a plank bridge and saw fish moving slowly over the black mud below them. Then the ground lifted a little to an island, and some large elm trees with cattle grazing under them. And over the ridge was Yellow Bull's house, facing south over the unknown country, tarred wood and reed thatch, with byres at one side, and store-houses at the other.

The earth in the yard was not yet summer-hard, but at least they could pick their way dry-shod between the worst of the mud; Yellow Bull brought them into his hall and helped them to pull off their riding-boots. They could smell their supper nearly ready and even hear the hissing and bubbling of roast meat over the fire in the other room. In the meantime the women brought them water for hands and feet, and such wine as there was in the house—not good, but at least it drove the fear a little further from Epigethes, and helped him to talk and laugh and look about him.

Yellow Bull's wife, Essro, was a small, pale-skinned woman, with eyes that seemed too big for her face; she lived mostly indoors, so as not to have to look at the marshes. She had always been good at domestic magic: her milk stayed sweet in hot weather, her stored apples never rotted, a bushel of flour went a long way with her. But she was easily frightened; she never tried to work magic on people, least of all on her husband, and the farm slaves found her easy to cheat. It was only very timidly that she dared say words over her own hair, even, to stop it falling out in the autumn, when there were mists creeping over the whole of their island, and she longed most for Marob town.

She waited on them at supper, very nervous of Tarrik; once she dropped a milk-jug and screamed, not very loud, but enough to hide the gasp of sheer terror from Epigethes. Afterwards she brought in torches and candles, and more
wine. Yellow Bull drank little, but the others had their cups filled and refilled.

Tarrik had a strong head, but very much enjoyed getting drunk. He never got to the stage of completely losing control of his body, except at the three great feasts of the year, when, as Chief and Corn King he had led the rest in this, as in everything, and even then it was a drunkenness not even mostly of the wine and corn mead. But an hour or so of fairly steady drinking would just give him the necessary feeling of unreality, of separateness, of being able to stand apart and observe, and be free of mere human emotions.

And Epigethes found it was doing him all the good in the world; the fear retreated right into the back of his mind, till it was scarcely more than the tiniest black cobweb on the clear mirror of his perceptions. He began to feel again a Hellene among barbarians, amused at their odd habits and manners and clothes. Yellow Bull asked him if he was stiff with riding. He was. He wanted to explain that riding was not truly Hellenic, that it was better to run beautifully and exercise one's own body rather than a mere brute's—he sketched a few gestures, of running, disk-throwing, wrestling—a swimmer, even, with one arm raised for a perfect side-stroke … he grew a little mixed in his movements. But Tarrik woke up out of his detachment, brought spirit to body, to speech: ‘You swim?' ‘But of course,' said Epigethes loftily to the barbarian. ‘And dive? Wonderful! Our northern rivers are too cold.'

Epigethes tried to explain, tactfully—oh ever so tactfully, as befits a Hellene—that it was not because of the cold that no one practised swimming here, but because of their ridiculous clothes that muffled them up, kept them pink and modest like women, hid their riding bow legs. He, on the other hand, was proud of his body, would strip and swim and show them. Yes, that was it, they were all admiring him now, rightly and properly, as they should. … And then, somehow or another, there was night air falling coldishly and sanely on his face, damp grass underfoot, and that spider's web of fear suddenly obscuring the mirror. … When he turned, the house was out of sight, they must have come a long way already. The moon was up, shining on water at each side, sleek mud, willows, flowering water
plants. Words began to collect in his head: ‘Is this really the best time?' spoken quite calmly, with a little laugh—yes, that was better, a little laugh to pass it off. ‘Tomorrow morning, say? Why, I'm half asleep, and I'll bet you two are the same.' But somehow they went on.

‘My road,' said Yellow Bull suddenly; all three stopped. They were on a high bank, with a gentle fall on one side to tangled marsh, and on the other a creek, with a small boat moored in it, quite still. They went on a few yards; the bank ended abruptly, crumbled almost under their feet. There was nothing in front but a steep slope of mud, nine feet down, and then black water with only its surface reflecting the moon, just rippled, gurgling faintly as it mouthed its way past the mudbank, eating into it all the time inch by inch. ‘Now you shall dive beautifully,' said Tarrik, standing on the edge with the moonlight catching the clasps of his coat and belt.

Epigethes looked backwards once. He could not run away; he did not know the path, and Yellow Bull did. Besides, he was too drunk—or had been—to get the full power out of his legs; it was a hard thing to be a Hellene and know that. And, after all, he had never been such a good runner as he pretended—only, in his head, among all the other shapes, the shape of himself as the athlete. He took his clothes off slowly; the web was matted all over the world now. For a moment he stood, stripped and rather beautiful in the moonshine. ‘Now, dive,' said the Chief. Epigethes looked from him to Yellow Bull, but the other Scythian was quite impassive, in shadow; he seemed to have no eyes, nothing to appeal to. The first filming of a cloud began to cover the moon, the water looked worse. He gave one great, tearing sob, and dived.

In the dimming light those two on the bank could hardly see, yet plainly hear, the bubbles coming up out of the mud. But after some ten minutes the cloud passed from the face of the moon, and the water moved clearly below them; it was all as it had been, without Epigethes. Yellow Bull picked up the clothes and belt, and looked across at the Chief. ‘You meant him for my road?' Tarrik nodded and turned and began walking back; suddenly he stretched his arms and laughed aloud in the night. ‘I was thinking of your sister,' he said, but Yellow Bull frowned and went on solidly.

When they came back to the house, Essro was sitting upright at the table with two candles between her and the door. She looked at them coming in, and shivered, and went away. Yellow Bull put the things down on the table; there was a purse fastened to the belt, with two or three drawings and measurements in it, a list of names, and at least a dozen keys, some made very lightly of wire. ‘What were all these for?' said Yellow Bull. ‘Not all his own, surely!' ‘No,' said Tarrik, ‘but we shall find locks for them,' and he took them and put them into the pockets in his own belt. Then he stirred up the hearth fire and began throwing in the clothes. ‘The brooches—take care!' said Yellow Bull, trying to pull them out of the stuff; but Tarrik threw them in with the rest. ‘You can rake them out tomorrow,' he said, ‘they'll be dead too, then.' The next morning Tarrik got up and rode off, very early, while Yellow Bull was still dreaming about his road. The other horse stayed on the island; it was not really a very good one.

Tarrik rode straight north and then a little inland, keeping clear of the town. Sometimes there were crops, but more often pasture, or just rough land with scrub that was no use to anyone. Where the ground rose, there were sometimes a few trees, but all the forest lay right inland, four days' riding from Marob; wherever there was a river, there would be swamp at each side of it, and he had to go carefully, marking the trackways and fords. As he got further north and east, the land was better, the soil sweeter and dryer. For nearly half a day he rode through the blue flax fields, seeing how well up the plants were, strong stemmed and clean. Sometimes there were tall patches of hemp, and later on that day he came to food crops, rye, barley, and some wheat. All the fields were guarded by children, in case anyone's beasts strayed. Here, again, everything was looking strong and healthy in the sun; the blades were broad and deep coloured, the ears were big already. As he passed, Tarrik thought of himself as Corn King and was proud of what he and earth and sun had done among them; then he thought of the Spring Queen and the dance they had acted together in the middle of the ring on Plowing Eve; if that was to come real, he felt, so much the better for the corn. He rode slowly, so that all the lands he passed should get something from him, and slept securely at noon
in beanfields and did not count the days that went by as he went north towards Harn Der's land.

Sometimes there were orchards, fenced in with turf banks; the apples of Marob were in those days the sweetest in the world. In one or two places there were figs and pomegranates, very carefully grown and sheltered from the north. But these were only near farms or camping places, and Tarrik was keeping clear of these, except at night when he took supper and the best bed from the nearest place he saw, once as it happened a small and very dirty farm where he was half eaten by lice, and once the great tent of a landowner come out from Marob for the summer, one of his own counsellors, who had skins of good southern wine with him, and oil for washing, and clean linen. It was later on the same day that he came to Harn Der's lands, which lay on the two sides of a very flat valley, with a stream going down from pool to pool in the middle and a wood of limes and oaks half-way up one slope. Here Tarrik slept the night, with the food and wine he had taken from the last place, under a lime tree, his saddle for a pillow. Leaning back against it, he could see through the tree trunks to the far slope, and the lights of Harn Der's camp: the fires like big yellow stars, and at night the great peaked tents glowing faintly and queerly from the lights inside them. He did not sleep very much, partly because of the violent sweetness of the lime flowers, shedding layer on layer of scent about him, partly because he started dreaming of the bubbles in the mud and Epigethes wriggling formlessly like a white slug underneath, but mostly because, after this, to keep himself from seeing it again, he had begun to make pictures of Erif Der over there on the far side: of chasing her and catching her and handling her and playing with her all over, till by morning there was nothing for it but to ride and get her, herself. He cantered down and through a deep pool, splashing himself all over, but not much cooler by the end of it. They were only just stirring in Harn Der's camp, it was still so early.

In the half dark of the women's tent, Erif Der turned over sleepily. It was days since she had thought of Tarrik, but this morning, as soon as she woke, she found he had come into her head. She did not want him there; she sat up and peered about. At the far end of the tent she could
see someone moving, her old nurse probably, reknotting the plaits of her sticky grey hair. But Wheat-ear, next her, was still asleep, charmingly curled up with her fists tucked under her chin. Erif Der blinked across at her small sister and called in a whisper; but Wheat-ear did not stir, so it must be little after dawn yet. Somewhere, right above her head in the great hollow dome of the tent, there were some big flies buzzing about, knocking against the sides; she could not see them. Someone slipped out past the curtain, and for a moment there was a breath of cool morning air. Erif Der pulled the blanket over her head and tried to go to sleep again.