The Corn King and the Spring Queen (30 page)

The next thing was that the Laughing Man came, whose business it was to stop all mourning and raise up the dead corn in laughter and rejoicing. Failing his being
IT
, Tarrik had got the Council to choose Kotka for this. He wore a grinning mask with black hair sticking up at the top and a blue and red beard sticking out all round. He was naked to the waist and had coloured spots and curliewurlies painted amusingly on his body. He had a tail, and he had long flippers hanging out at the ends of his fingers. Some of the children screamed, including his own two, but the grown-ups liked him very much. He parted the crowd with a peculiar springing bound and a screech of laughter; he flourished himself in front of them. He leapt over to the women and twitched at their loose hair and black blankets. ‘Why are you snivelling?' he said. ‘What's all this goats'-dung colour for? Who pulled your hair down, my pretties? What else did he pull? Aha, so that's it, my little cry-babies. But didn't he make you laugh, too? Oh, didn't he, didn't he?' And so on and so forth with nothing at all witty or original, but all exactly what was expected of him, with no stopping or hesitation, until the mere rapid piling on of words and jokes got the male crowd worked up into tension that broke down suddenly on all sides into hysterical laughter that would take anything as fresh food.

Then the Laughing Man began his great boast: ‘I can
cure anything! I can cure eagles of flying, salmon of swimming, young women of talking, old men and bulls of growing horns, and pigs of jumping over haystacks!' He went on, a great bout of boasting, the boasting of the magic of Marob, the magic of the men and farmers, the harvest laughter that can cure anything, in the end even death. Before this, the women were swept away into playthings with their comic love affairs and comic birth-pains and their amazingly comic bodies, the final and inexhaustible butt of a man's laughter. They clung together, blushing, all in their deepest feelings knocked over, pummelled, on their backs, for the prancing of the Laughing Man. Oh, how he hurt them, how he tickled them, how the crowd laughed at him and them! By this time Kotka had become so much the Laughing Man of this once in every year, had lost his own voice and manner so entirely, that the next day Disdallis could scarcely connect her husband with the things she had been made to listen to whether she would or not—but all the same would she have missed it if she could?—would any of the others?—this tearing naked, this violence, this cold bath of laughter and male boasting! Most of it went over the heads of the young children. He was a funny, jumping man.

But, for Kotka himself, in so far as he existed inside the Laughing Man, it was a grimmish business. For when he did wake
IT
, was there any knowing which of the two would stand up? Wouldn't it perhaps be the first one, old Harn Der, all bloody and dripping? The worst of it was, the play carried him on right up to the final moment when he bent over
IT
and said something so finally funny that
IT
had to laugh and wake up and join in the fun that life was. There was just a second's complete horror before he knew.

But it was Tarrik who woke, Tarrik alone. He raised himself from the thing which had little by little been cooling and stiffening under him. He could not even see Kotka's merry, friendly eyes because of the mask. He could not immediately see Erif Der among the black-blanketed women. All the same, as he raised himself, he was, as it was right that he should be, laughing.

The laughter shook him and shook him. He was not Tarrik any more, he was one raised from the dead in the
sight of the people. Oh, it was a good world to be alive in, only to be alive, as man, as beast, as corn!

He had been dead, he had lain stiffly in the cold clay, waiting, and at last the thing had come which he was longing for.

With short quick steps he and the Laughing Man led the dance, off and round the booth, catching with their hands at bunches of fruit, squeezing and throwing it, and so across the stubble field. The whole people of Marob followed them, looking to life, not death. Tarrik was smeared with blood on his back and shoulders. It was not blood, it was red clay of winter where the seed had lain. His face was white. So must the face be of one newly risen. Behind him the Spring Queen danced, splashed with the same red. Ah, on breasts and neck! But the dance went on to its finish.

Yet, when it came to an end people did not go home quietly. The men and some of the women stayed. They were desperately anxious and uncertain. Had she spoiled the Year, for then and perhaps forever? Had she? Tarrik said not; he had taken the baby Klint in his arms and was jogging up and down a little as he talked. The Council were standing three deep in front of him. For the first time in his life he was afraid of them. He tried to tell them that it had been only a shifting of life, of focus, from one man to another, a changing of horses on a journey. Everything has to be paid for. Harn Der himself had killed the first child, the New Year. Now, although through another's strength and will, the still newer New Year, the second child had killed Harn Der. But the Chief himself had snatched up the spirit of the corn as it passed from Harn Der; he had pinned it down as he lay over the body it had taken first. He had got it in him now! Everything was all right. They should see. Life would go on. If the Year had been hurt, he
swore, even by his child's life, to set it right! The Council seemed fairly satisfied. Slowly they left the field.

Kotka, listening, had understood what the Corn King wanted to have said. He went and spoke to the other men. He had been closest of all to the Rising-up, he had seen; it had been the real thing.

Disdallis did the same among the women, for Erif Der herself did not seem to want to speak. She was not dazed or unhappy or frightened, but more like someone at the end of a feast, satisfied. She had killed her father, and Tarrik had saved her life. Those were both solid things which she could hold on to with a certain security that they could not change much.

But Tarrik went back to his own place, taking the Corn-cap with him and laying it on its shelf in the innermost division. The other things, which Harn Der had worn or touched, were dangerous now; he had them burnt. His own place was still queerly full of Harn Der having been there for the night. He sat down for a time in the smoke, chewing berries and thinking of Harn Der. The body was now in its own house again, watched by its own household, but for a time Tarrik was Harn Der. If anyone had come in they would have mistaken him for his father-in-law, their eyes would have followed their immediate perceptions and tricked them into seeing a whitish beard on Tarrik. But no one did come in. He shook it off. But all the same, Harn Der had been the dead corn, and he himself was the risen corn. How, in spite of all his talk to the Council, reconcile these two things? Circumstances had forced him and Harn Der, his enemy, so much together, that for a time they had been the same. If he had been the corn and Harn Der had been the corn, was he Harn Der? He tried to remember what he had said in the field to the old men who had doubted. How had the baby come in? Which of it all was real?

Towards morning he slept and dreamed that the only real thing was a little round, brittle ball that he held in his hands; and his hands were cold and fumbled with it, and he kept on just catching it again as it slipped. He woke the old guardian to read his dream for him, as dreams that the Corn King had in his own place must be read. She said his ball was the small world he and his wife together made, reflecting all other worlds. And he agreed that it was
real, and he knew that something very different would have happened that day but that he loved Erif. But he did not think this alone was reality. And he knew that she, when she came out of the satisfaction with what she had done, which was steeping her now, would also think that it was only one of many hard yet elusive realities.

N
OTHING OBVIOUS HAPPENED
at once, and the weather stayed fair till quite late; but people were frightened of Erif Der. She could see that. They drew away from her at feasts just as they had from Tarrik during the time when she had been magicking him. They wore red beads and plaited the fringes of their coats or ends of their hair into tangles when they had to speak to her. She caught two of her own women doing that, and herself cut off all their hair and sent them home shamed. But other people went on. She began to look out for it, and it was not always easy to laugh. She grew rather madly bored with it and rode south to see Essro; but Essro was just as frightened as anyone else when she heard what had happened, and besides she was inclined in some obscure way to blame herself and weep about it. She was always following Yan and afraid of things happening to him; he tottered about all over the farm and managed to fall into everything there was to fall into; he was rather an engaging baby and beginning to make noises that really meant something. Erif rode back to the Chief's house and people were still just the same; when she passed a doorway there was very seldom now anyone standing in it to wave a hand and greet her. Now, when she was alone, Erif began to be uncertain of herself as Spring Queen. It is always an unpleasant possibility that other people may be right.

In the slack weeks after harvest Tarrik took power over the men of Marob and ordered them south to build the secret road. Essro sent him the plans, but would not see him. During the summer, wood had been cut and tarred for piles and bridges. The old ones were mended and strengthened and new ones were made. The men looked at the fresh islands with expert eyes; the Council came and spoke of clearing, took up handfuls of the rich stoneless earth, smelt it and tasted it and considered what fat crops its first year would give. They were convinced about the
secret road now. The islands were to be common land: no single man was to be given the chance of putting a barrier across Marob's road. Following Yellow Bull's plans and pictures, they made ditches to lead away the flood waters and straight dikes of the earth they had channelled out to protect the lower islands. Slaves were set to do the first clearing, cutting away brambles and willows and rank stuff, and making great bonfires of it all; even next year it was possible that they might use some of the new land for hay and grazing.

The bullfighting went off well enough; no one was killed or very badly hurt. All foreigners had left Marob. The snow began to fall. Disdallis was going to have another baby towards the end of winter and was rather gloomy; she had this dislike of pain to what Kotka thought a quite unreasonable degree, particularly for a woman who is bound to get so much of it. She had managed two safe enough already: why all this fuss? At harvest when he was the Laughing Man, he had mocked at her about it. When she was so silly, it made him feel guilty! And why, in the name of harvest, should he be made to feel that? Erif saw a good deal of Disdallis now; the other witch might be afraid of pain, but she was not afraid of the Spring Queen. It was a pity, though, that this winter they could not go racing about together, which was what Erif wanted to do. Erif was glad of the snow. Once it had fallen and stayed and begun to pack into drifts and hard snow roads, there was nothing for either Corn King or Spring Queen to do until signs of thaw came. So all that part of her dropped off and was put away like a doll in a box, and the Chief and the Chief's wife were the same as every one else. It was usually at this time of year that the Council began to feel very independent and told their Chief what they thought of him; on the other hand, it was also the time of year at which least of a practical nature could be done. Erif Der tried to sink back as much as possible into being an ordinary person; she hoped when spring came that people would have forgotten—and she would have forgotten too!

The Chief always gave several feasts at the beginning of winter. Every one liked them. People told stories and sang and played games and laughed a great deal; they were probably very happy, but hardly any of them thought about
that; they did not think about what happiness was. Only, it was stupid to be sad and not laugh. If for some reason you could not begin laughing at once when every one else did, if you were feeling winter or death or pain, it was a good thing to go to a feast and have plenty to eat and drink, and hear funny stories and remember and tell others, and see a lot of lights and girls and coloured things to make the blood run quicker. If you had not got enough food in your own house to last over winter, someone else in Marob would be sure to give it to you. If your wife died, court and marry another. If your child died, make yourself another. It was no use trying to interfere with the seasons, with the life of the year. Some lived and some died. As well expect your wheat to be all grain, no chaff!

Gold-fish and Wheat-ear were old enough to come to the feasts. They had almost forgotten about their father, they were growing up so fast. Erif Der was determined to marry Wheat-ear young to somebody sensible who would look after her well, somebody kind and secure, who would give her children, but not too many. She began already to look about for the right man, before her silly sister began to look about for herself and probably saw the wrong one! Wheat-ear would find it very easy to be in love with anybody who told her she was. Erif would tell her so, too.

In the Chief's garden the supple trees bent under the weight of the snow. Their humped branches made quiet, smooth, unsymmetrical animals, fantastic snouts and paws. Berris used always to love them; he found names for the funniest ones. But some people said they were bad devils. All round Marob the trees looked like that; it was marvellous finding one's way through a wood. Going about in winter was so quiet that every one fastened bells on to their sledges and sledge horses, and stuck up in the snow thin saplings with bells on them, so that there would be a nice tinkling noise, even when no people were there. Tarrik had a sledge made of painted oak; it was so well shaped and balanced that he almost always won the sledge races. Tarrik and Erif raced together, crouching on the sledge, yelling to the horses, swinging out at the curves in a hiss of fine snow.

Erif could not go far afield because of the baby, but Tarrik and his men went tearing out of Marob on their jangling sledges and stayed away all day and through the long,
brilliant, frosty nights, singing and drinking round great fires of branches that sunk pits into the snow. Sometimes they brought girls out with them and made hot love rolling in the cold snow. But Erif had her own pleasures too.

She had been afraid of adoring her new baby very much during the first few weeks when everything was going well. She remembered too acutely how her love for the other had been smashed just as it was swelling out into full consciousness, and she was aware how much sorer than anything else in the world a broken love can be. She had not dared to be more than friendly with this one, had not dared to look at him softly. But gradually, as she found that people still thought her unlucky, as she grew slowly to believe in it herself, she began deliberately flying in the face of her ill-luck. She said to Disdallis: ‘When I was a girl I thought I could get everything. Now I know I can't, and I think I may have done myself harm to the very bottom of my powers, so that perhaps I shall never be able to lead the seasons again. But one thing I will have, and I'll see that I have, and that's my baby!' She picked him up from the cradle for the mere pleasure of his cuddling warmth against her. ‘Isn't he nice?' she said.

Disdallis looked quickly and then looked away. ‘Is it worth it?' she said. ‘Do they make up for the pain? Even you, Erif, you're strong and brave, but you did scream—as if something wasn't having any mercy on you—and they get sick and die so easily and suddenly—if one were to have that pain as well as the other!' She shuddered at the insecurity of it.

But Erif said: ‘I've forgotten the pain when he was born. So many things have happened since then. I can deal with pain. Even if I can't at the time, I can afterwards, in my memory.'

‘You may be able,' said Disdallis, ‘I can't. There are lots of different sorts of people, Erif, even different sorts of women. One thing's real for one of them, and something else for another.' Her voice died down and she contemplated the prospect of her own coming pain, and could get no comfort from the thought that at least there would be several weeks first during which she would not be hurt. Her mother had warned her against going to see Erif, at the moment most of all, and she was sufficiently sure that when the time
came and she was whimpering under the grip and relax and tighter grip of the pain whose quality she remembered so well, people would say it came of having got into the shadow of Erif's bad luck. Well, the other women must be given something to say, some excuse for her hating pain so much!

For days at a time Tarrik would be all alive, doing things for fun, not able to walk because his legs wanted to run, violently active and yet in his heart peaceful with the fullness of physical well-being. Then a day would come when he woke feeling sleepy, stretched himself out by the fire half dressed, and lay there till supper, snoozing and blinking, only willing to play very lazily with Erif and Klint. He had always lived this spasmodic kind of life, and as he got older it got more marked. He did most of his thinking during the periods of activity; when he was lazy the only things that went through his head were words and tunes of songs, and friendliness of dogs or women. But when he was out in the snow he thought about the seasons and what would be best for Marob.

One day they had both been out together. The whistling wind had caught their cheeks and noses; the waves were getting up and beginning to roar and drum. It was good to be sure that there was no one out on the sea now. The trampling sledge horses pulled up at the door of the Chief's house. Erif ran in out of the snow. As they heard her come, clapping her hands together, her women ran to meet her, bringing with them the warm air of the house, charged deep with smells of fur and wood smoke and scents based on musk, for hair or body. She threw off her coat where already the white crisp snow was beginning to melt and soak the white, soft fur into tags. They pulled her boots off and rubbed her long white legs with warm oil. She stretched herself and laughed and thought of Tarrik still out with the galloping sledges, the tingle of ripped flying snow against his face, the sense of speed that winter brought. The baby lay in front of the fire on a blanket; he was awake and staring, first at his own fist and then at the bright, steady flaming of the logs. His eyes were blotted and brimming with flames. His fat legs bent and unbent in a steady kicking; they thumped softly on the blanket; when they stayed still one of Tarrik's hounds would stretch across and lick the toes. Erif came and
stood over Klint; he grinned very suddenly at her and gave a tremendous wriggle all over. She tossed her head back. ‘Silly thing!' she said, but looked softly at him.

By and bye he began to give little panting, eager cries of desire for food and the warmth and tenderness that went with it. Erif's breasts answered to the noise with a pleasant hardening, a faint ache waiting to be assuaged. Their tips turned upward and outward, and the centre of the nipple itself grew velvet soft and tender and prepared for the softness of the baby. She unpinned her dress and picked him up and snuggled down over him on to a heap of cushions. He moved his blind, silly mouth from side to side eagerly. For a moment she teased him, withholding herself; then, as she felt the milk in her springing towards him, she let him settle, thrusting her breast deep into the hollow of his mouth, that seized on her with a rhythmic throb of acceptance, deep sucking of lips and tongue and cheeks. Cheated, her other breast let its milk drip in large bluish-white drops on to his legs, then softened and sagged and waited. For a time he was all mouth, then his free arm began to waver and clutch, sometimes her face, sometimes a finger, sometimes grabbing the breast with violent, untender little soft claws. She laughed and caught his eye, and the sucking lips began to curve upward in spite of themselves. He let go suddenly to laugh, and her breast, released, spirted milk over his face.

Now by turns he sucked and laughed, and she laughed too; his hands patted her, his whole lovely body was moving with the warmth and sweetness. He lay across her belly and thighs, heavy and utterly alive. She picked him up and held him on her shoulder and buried her nose in his neck, in the sharp, dizzying smell of his bodily warmth. He sucked a little at her cheek and lips, the careless beginning of kisses. She laid him down again on the other side; the mutual pleasure of give and take began again. She brushed her face against his new, growing hair; it was warm and a little stiff. She knew it was brownish, but in this firelight it was all red gold, and there were very small goldenish hairs on his face, like Tarrik's, but tiny, tiny, and coming out of this calm, untouched flesh, this freshly soft skin that no anxiety had ever blemished.

After a time he began to look about him, satisfied, or
only turned to her for a moment to nip and laugh. She laid him flat on her knee and he stared at things with wrinkling forehead and wide-open eyes that never blinked and never understood. He stretched his short round legs towards the fire; he was all stretching and growing. The women were away at the other end of the hall. She did not care in the least what they thought about her; in her own mind now she was not unlucky! Tarrik was still out in the snow. She was alone with Klint. She bent her head right down to him and began to whisper to him; he turned to her and half screwed up his eyes into completest brightness, spread his nostrils, pursed or widened his funny mouth, and cooed at her with small musical sounds. She hugged him up to her and he peeped and threw his head back and gave a deep, soft laugh; he was making the noises of a lover too deep in love to speak with words. She hovered with her face over his, breathing in his warm, faintly sweet breath, staring down into his eyes. Suddenly she thrust her tongue down hard between his very smooth, very delicate rose-pink lips. She felt his hard gums and soft cheeks; his tongue laid hold of hers and began to suck strongly. She drew it out again and laughed. Her son laughed too.