The Big Fisherman (12 page)

Fara did not smile or speak. Slowly leaving her place she walked with determined steps to the massive table. The audience leaned forward and held its breath, wondering what was about to happen. Moving around the table until she faced the King, Fara made a deep bow. Then, to the amazement of everyone, she whipped a little dagger from her belt and deftly drew a red streak diagonally across her left forearm. Bending over the long neglected, unsigned vow of vengeance, she took up the stylus, dipped it in her blood, and wrote FARA.

For a moment they all sat stunned to silence. Then Rennah rose and hurried to Fara's side. Arnon, much shaken, quickly joined the Queen and together they led the bleeding Princess out to attend to her wound. Fara's face was pale but her eyes were bright and a proud little smile trembled on her lips.

Zendi rose, instantly claiming the full attention of his silent, bewildered guests.

'Some brave young blood has been shed here tonight,' he said solemnly. 'You may be assured that Arabia will not permit this gallant child ever to risk her life in an attempt to keep her vow; but her courageous act, done in all sincerity, is proudly appreciated by her country.'

'Aye!' mumbled old Mishma.

'Aye! Aye!' responded many voices.

There was a long moment of silence before Zendi signified with a gesture that they were now free to disperse. The people stirred, uneasily questing one another's baffled eyes. Mishma, standing at the King's elbow, suggested that the unprecedented event should be kept a secret.

'That would be most desirable, Mishma, if we could,' agreed Zendi. 'But it cannot be done. It is possible to pledge three people—or five—to keep a secret; but not fifty. Perhaps it is better to let them all talk until they have tired of it—and then it will be forgotten. After all, she is only a child.'

And so it was told throughout the whole Kingdom of Arabia that Princess Arnon's young daughter had vowed to assassinate her Jewish father. The first reaction was that of sheer admiration mixed with amiable amusement. The little girl had shown great courage. She might be part Jew, but she was all Arab! Of course her vow—considered practically—was ridiculous. When she grew a little older, her recollection of it would be embarrassing, no doubt. And after a few weeks of free discussion, the strange incident—as Zendi had predicted—was forgotten.

Young Voldi, completely infatuated and not caring who knew it, spent more and more time at Arnon's encampment, to the mounting anxiety of his parents, for he was a popular, well-favoured youth, giving promise of a bright future. With his exceptional talents for making friends and the reputation he had already won as a fearless sportsman, it was not too much to hope that his country might some day confer honours upon him. He might easily win an appointment to the King's Council. But it seemed doubtful to Urson and Kitra that their idolized son could fulfil these high expectations if embarrassed by an alliance with a young woman of alien blood, especially Jewish blood. Whatever might be her beauty, courage, and charm, Fara would be a heavy liability.

Nor was Voldi insensitive to his parents' uneasiness. He was deeply devoted to them and their anxiety distressed him. There were no stormy scenes. Perhaps it might have been easier for him to ignore their wishes if they had angered him with stern admonitions—if Urson had lashed out at him with bitter scorn or if his mother had become noisily hysterical. The unhappy situation was hardly mentioned among them, but it was ever present in their thoughts. Urson seldom laughed now. And when Voldi, setting forth in the morning to spend the day with the adorable young daughter of Antipas the scoundrel, turned in his saddle to wave a hand to Kitra, standing before the doorway, trying to smile through her welling tears, he felt like an ingrate.

And he had other misgivings. He was seeing very little of his companions. Until recently he had spent most of his time with his hard-riding young cronies. Indeed, he had been the acknowledged leader of this adventurous crew. What were they thinking about him? What were they saying about him, as they sat around their evening camp-fire in the mountains after a long day's chase for wild game? It would be a sore affliction if his friends were to chatter contemptuously of his demoralizing love-sickness. He resolved to free himself of this dread.

One morning, having had word of their plans for a three-day stag-hunt, Voldi arrived early at the accustomed rendezvous, fully equipped for the excursion. There was a bit of embarrassment at first, but the constraint quickly lifted. Voldi was one of them again. Intent upon restoring himself to their good opinion, he led them for hours in the maddest ride they had ever taken—leaping deep gulleys cut by mountain streams, hurdling fallen timber, plunging through tangled underbrush. Challenged by his recklessness, they did their utmost to follow. Young Museph, the elder son of Councillor Tema, kept hard on his leader's heels and brought down the largest stag of the three killed that day. Voldi accounted for the others. Most of the party were out-distanced and came straggling into camp in the late afternoon, weary beyond any words to tell of it.

A camp-fire was built beside a noisy mountain stream. The stags were hung up and dressed. Museph flung himself down on the aromatic pine-needles that carpeted the ground; and when Voldi sat down beside him, regarding him with a teasing grin, Museph opened one eye and muttered, 'My brother, you have lost your mind.'

The last to arrive in camp was young Prince Deran, King Zendi's arrogant son, attended by four members of the hunt who had reluctantly tarried with him when the pace had grown too hot. The Prince had bagged a little doe. No one ventured to rebuke him, but the general silence expressed the party's opinion. Deran was quite aware of his companions' disfavour, aware too that had he been anyone else than the heir to the throne he would have been appropriately chastised. He cared nothing for their unspoken disapproval. His manner said that if the King's son wished to kill a baby doe, who had a right to oppose him?

After supper there were some acrobatics, a wrestling match, and a fencing bout with wooden broadswords. It was proposed that they have a duel with daggers.

'How about you and Museph, Voldi?' a voice inquired.

'I'm too tired,' said Museph. 'Besides, I'm no match for Voldi.'

'We will take him on!' shouted the Prince, getting to his feet.

All eyes—and they were sullen eyes—turned in his direction. They covertly scorned the pompous youngster, hated his poor sportsmanship, loathed his insolent 'we'.

'It wouldn't be fair, Prince,' said Voldi, trying to make his tone sound respectful. 'I am older than you—and I have had more practice.'

'But not lately,' sneered Deran; 'or do you play with daggers when you visit your Jewish friend?'

All breathing around the camp fire was suspended. Voldi flushed and frowned.

'I do not wish to fence with you, Prince Deran,' he said.

'As we thought!' crowed Deran. 'That's what comes of consorting with soft aliens.' He took a step forward and drew his dagger. 'Stand up and fight, fellow!'

Voldi slowly rose, and observed, as had several of the others, that the blade of Deran's dagger flashed brightly in the firelight.

'You're not intending to fight me with steel, I hope!' he said sharply. A concerted murmur of disapproval instantly backed him up. It was a shameful abuse of royal privilege. Every youth in the party knew the Prince was not vulnerable to any injury. It would be worth any man's liberty, if not his life, to hurt this boy.

Bewildered by his predicament Voldi stood with his thumbs under his belt, making no move to defend himself. Young Deran, crouching, advanced with short steps.

'You'd better draw, Voldi,' he growled, 'or admit you're a coward.'

Apparently it was the wrong word even for the King's son to use. Voldi lunged forward, drove his right elbow into the Prince's midriff, clutched the wildly flailing forearm in a vice-like grip, twisted the dagger out of Deran's hand, and tossed it into the fire. Panting with rage, the Prince again hurled himself at Voldi who, disregarding the impotent fists, slapped the youngster full in the face.

'You'll pay for that!' squeaked Deran.

Gentle if disgusted hands led the infuriated Prince to his tent for repairs to his royal pride and bleeding lips. Voldi resumed a seat on the ground, a little way apart from the others, and sat with bent head and slumped shoulders.

'I'm sorry,' he mumbled dejectedly, shaking his head.

It was a critical moment for all of them. No one cared to risk being quoted as having said, 'Good work, Voldi! Just what he deserved! What else could you have done?' At length Museph scrambled to his feet, threw another pine stick on the fire, dusted his hands; and, sauntering over to Voldi, companionably sat down beside him. Young Raboth, the lean, hawk-nosed nephew of Councillor Dumah, crossed from the other side of the silent circle, made a big business of poking the fire; and, as he passed Voldi, gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. The rest of them breathed more freely and exchanged grins. Deran did not reappear that night, and left for home early the next morning.

Voldi made no mention of the unpleasant affair at home, but for many days he waited, in considerable trepidation, a summons to present himself at the King's encampment; for it seemed almost certain that Deran would have made a bad report of the incident. But apparently the episode was to be overlooked. Either the Prince had decided to hold his tongue or the King, having heard his son's story, had drawn his own conclusions and had thought it prudent to let the matter drop.

But the true story unquestionably had got to the ears of the Council; for a week later, Voldi was invited to spend the day with his revered Grandfather Mishma. He went with anxiety pounding in his heart, for he was devoted to the old man and would be grieved at his displeasure. But it turned out to be a happy visit. Nothing was said about the unfortunate incident in the woods. When Voldi left for home, Mishma followed him out to the paddock and ceremoniously presented him with a beautiful, high-spirited, black gelding.

With one arm on the superb young animal's neck and the other hugging his grandfather, Voldi shouted his delight. The eminent Councillor stroked his white beard complacently and a twinkle shone in his eye.

'This frisky colt's name,' he said, 'is Darik—after King Darik of old.'

'He was called "Darik the Just," was he not, sire?' asked Voldi.

'Right! Because he was always fair in his judgments,' said Mishma. 'It is told of him that King Darik was of a quick temper and knew better than most men how to handle a blade; but he never drew his sword against a weaker adversary—no matter what the provocation.' The old man laid his thin hand on the gelding's velvet muzzle. 'This horse,' he reflected, 'will require some managing, but he is of good character. See to it, my son, that he behaves himself.'

Voldi's visits to Fara continued. They rode together almost every day throughout the summer, and when the early winter came, with blustery weather driving them indoors, Arnon, observing their restlessness and lack of occupation, proposed that Voldi join them in their lately neglected studies. He consented to it with well-simulated interest. He had no particular ambition to learn, but any pastime was agreeable that would give him an excuse for hovering close to Fara. Ione was delighted with his progress. He had an aptitude for Greek, she declared; he had a feel for it; would soon be speaking it like a native! This was an exaggeration, but it encouraged Voldi to do his best. Moreover, he was able to tell his mother that the long winter afternoons in Princess Arnon's home were profitably spent. Kitra would smile indulgently—but it was plain to see that she was troubled.

And Fara too was troubled about Voldi's adoration, her intuition—and the widening intervals between Kitra's visits—informing her that he was getting into trouble at home because of her. Once she almost decided to tell Voldi frankly that he mustn't come to see her any more, but her courage failed, for she loved him devotedly. Sometime—no matter how severely it hurt—he must be told; but Fara postponed the day of their sorrow.

As the seasons came and went, Fara took on a maturity beyond her years. The circumstances of her life had made her thoughtful even as a child; now, with her sixteenth birthday in sight, she had the mind of an adult. The conviction had grown within her that she was fated to be a person unwanted; viewed with suspicion, an alien. The Jews would spurn her for being an Arabian; the Arabians would ignore her for being a Jew. What ailed the world that grown men and women should treat one another so? Once she had put the question to Ione, who had replied, with a sigh, 'It was always that way, my dear, from the beginning.'

'It's a lonely world—for some people,' said Fara.

'I know how you feel,' sympathized Ione. 'I have been lonely too.'

'Yes, but you have a nationality, Ione! You are far away from your own country; but you do have a country. It isn't as if you were a mixture of two countries that hated each other. Me—I am nobody!'

'Do not be depressed, Fara,' entreated Ione. 'There are many who love you, who will always love you. No girl in the world ever had such a devoted lover as Voldi.'

'I know,' murmured Fara, 'but—he shouldn't!' Her voice trembled. 'I mustn't let him! He can't marry me! It would ruin him! Ione—what am I going to do?'

* * * * * *

Shortly before sunset the Princess Arnon, long ailing of infirmities associated with a broken heart, slipped away so quietly that for some little time they weren't quite sure.

It was Fara who first realized that it was all over. Since noon she had been crouching beside the bed with her forehead pressed against her mother's thin arm, now raising up tearfully to peer into the unresponsive face, then dejectedly slumping down again to wait.

At mid-afternoon old Kedar noisily rolled up the leather panels on the northern and eastern exposures of the octagonal tent, just as he would have done at this hour on any other fair summer day. Kedar had seen plenty of death in his four-score years and it no longer upset him. Indeed, he was almost too casual in its presence today, strutting his old bones about with something of a proprietorial swagger as if he and death had a private understanding.