The Corn King and the Spring Queen (8 page)

Among the cowries, Erif Der picked up a hairpin of Yersha's, and laughed again; but her hand was sore all the same, and she wished she was out of the Chief's garden and standing alone on the seashore in the cold, or down in the forge with Berris, making things—and not magic. She went over to one of the fountains and sat cross-legged on the ground beside it, dabbling her fingers and frowning; then she began threading the cowries. In a way she was glad that Yersha hated her as much as she hated Yersha: it was all simpler. When it came to an end, as it would soon, Yersha would be in her power. She thought of all sorts of amusing things that might be made to happen to her, with all the lively imagination of a young married woman against an old maid. Yes, Yersha would be sorry for stamping on her hand: quite soon now. And Tarrik?

As she sat there, Tarrik came out of the house; he had been talking with his aunt, and, in a way, he knew that she was right. He knew he had married a witch and must beware of her; he knew she was working against him somehow; and yet he could not quite connect her with anything that had happened, least of all Midsummer and Harvest. The more he tried to remember, the less certain he was of what had happened; some cloud had come over his mind, and she—she could take it away if she chose. Yet it had been his own doing at the beginning, and he was Chief and Corn King and whatever he did was right. Make her be different, then. He went over to the fountain; she had a long string
of odd shells and she was playing with them, pulling them along the ground and pouncing on them like a wild kitten. He could not see her as quite grown up, nor, somehow, quite plainly; he rubbed his eyes. And he should have got used to his wife by now. Used to her and tired of her, he thought savagely, remembering his old love affairs, and stood still, considering her critically. Then he pulled off her fur cap and threw it away, and rubbed his hands in her hair; it was wonderfully soft and full of little ends; it tangled round his fingers. She reached up gently and caught his wrists, but he shook her off and picked up the string of shells and broke a twig from the bush beside him and began pushing it into the long, smooth slits of them. He let them slide from one hand into the other, and then began to coil them round his neck, with the two ends hanging loose over his coat in front. ‘You like taking my things, Tarrik,' said Erif Der, still sitting cross-legged, leaning a little against his knees.

‘Yes,' said Tarrik. But how to make her different? ‘I do what I like with you,' he said again, and pushed the sleeve back from her arm and ran his hand along it. Then he took off one of his own rings and put it on to her middle finger. ‘That's for you, Erif,' he said. Women like to be given things. The ring was too big for her: it was a sun-ring, a topaz in a claw setting, warm from his skin.

‘Who made it?' she asked.

‘It comes from inland, from the north,' he said. ‘Do you see, Erif, it is really a sort of dragon?'

‘No Greek could have made that,' she said.

‘No.'

‘We make better things than the Greeks.'

‘Yes.'

‘Tarrik, you hate the Greeks, don't you?'

‘Yes. No. Erif Der, take your hands from me!' He stepped back quickly and a loose end of the cowrie chain swung against his sword hilt, tinkling. He twitched at it, and it broke: the shells came showering down between him and Erif.

She gave a little cry: ‘Oh, Tarrik, you are worse than Yersha!' and began to pick them up again hurriedly.

For a moment the clouds seemed to thin. ‘She spoke to me just now,' he said, and then, ‘Erif, I am in danger! I know I am as much Corn King as ever, I know I have the
power still! But they think not, they think—oh, I can't tell what they are thinking! I will make them believe in me again. You are my Queen, the Spring Queen, Erif; you must help me. You must! If you don't I shall hate you: I do terrible things to the people I hate, I kill them in horrible ways, I hurt them for hours. I don't want to hate you, Erif, I love you—' Suddenly he stopped; he was saying things he had not meant to say. Was she changing?

‘You are mad,' she said. ‘You are mad, Tarrik!' and got to her feet. She had put the cowries somewhere, into her dress, perhaps, between her warm young breasts. He put out a hand for them and then checked himself, only keeping a grip of the woollen stuff of her dress, holding her so that she could not go away unchanged.

‘When the snow comes,' he said, ‘they will have the bulls in, and the racing. I shall fight the bulls, Erif! Then they will see I have power, they will know I am Corn King and Chief of Marob!' He let her go.

‘Yes,' she said gently, ‘do that, Tarrik. Then it will be over and you will not be unhappy any more.'

‘I will not be unhappy any more,' he repeated; and suddenly picked her up in his arms, picked her right up off the ground and kissed her as if he would never be done. In a little he felt she was kissing him back, her arms were round his neck, soft and strong and straining. He took her into his house. Women like to be given rings.

Eurydice, up in her own room, called the maid Apphé sharply to draw the curtains and light the lamps. ‘I feel so sad when the good weather is over,' she said; ‘when the sea is rough: no ships, nothing! Oh, shall I ever get away, shall we ever go south, Apphé? Light the big lamp—yes, and more wood. And bring me my mirror. Oh, I am not so old. If I could get to my own Hellas I would still be happy. How happy I should be.'

‘But I know it will come, my lady,' said Αpphé; ‘let me read your hand again. Look, you see, the sure line, the travel line, isn't that certain?'

‘You've seen that often, so often, Apphé, and so have I. But it never comes. How could it? Charmantides will not leave Marob.'

‘Unless anything were to happen to we-know-who,' said the maid.

‘Yes,' said Eurydice, fingering the edge of her silver mirror, ‘unless he were free.' And then: ‘I wish I knew what truly happened to that artist—Epigethes; he was to have made me a jewel-case. How he talked! Athens, Corinth, Rhodes. … What do you think, Apphé?'

‘You know what they say, my lady—'

‘Not a word of it true! He denied it—to me. How could Charmantides—? My sister's son!'

‘No, my lady.'

‘And yet—all this last year—Oh, Apphé, it surely cannot be winter again already!' She twitched the drawn curtains back; yes, there were real clouds, and that leaden, restless sea.

When it was nearly dusk, Erif Der, who had been lying back, half awake, half dreaming, suddenly sat up—so suddenly that Tarrik woke and blinked and swung over an arm to catch her; heavy and warm, it rested on her a moment before it slipped off again as he settled to sleep once more. She got up softly and soberly, and picked up her shoes and dress from the floor, and put them on, and splashed her hands and face with water that had sweet herb leaves soaking in it. She smiled at Tarrik lying there; she could see the mark on his chest where her star had burnt him, and his strong, bare arms that had held her so firmly and yet so softly, and the dark curly hair in his armpits that smelt of hay and summer and sun. She moved a step towards him, and then shook herself and tiptoed out, and down the stone stairs and out of a side door on to the road, and so to the beach. Eastwards, out to sea, it was black and wild looking, unquiet still after the storm; the only light was inland, over the tops of the houses. The snow might come soon, any day now. And, ‘I will do it!' she said aloud, stamping on the pebbles, ‘I will! He shan't change me—not this way! Let him go to his bullfight and end it!' And then she began to run, plunging breathlessly across the shingle till she got to sand; while one is running hard there is no time for regrets, for changing one's mind, for softness and love. When she stopped it was full night; she stood between low cliffs and a sea of hollow black and the lightless grey of foam-caps, unending. As she looked out,
she thought she saw something, a spark, a tiny light, far off, hardly in sight. It was late in the year for a ship, late and bad weather; she could not be sure, sometimes it was there, sometimes hidden. She climbed half-way up the cliff to see better, but night was almost come, the wind pulled at her dress, she was cold and cramped, and if she stayed longer, they would miss her in the Chief's house.

She went back more slowly, not at all afraid of the dark; she was making plans for magic now, to put something between him and the bulls, so that neither eye nor hand should do what he wanted of them. This bullfighting would be all the barbarian part of him, that she could bewitch easily, as it had been before, for the two Feasts. It would have been a different matter magicking him over anything in which the Greek part of him counted; but she had been lucky. She knew it. Carefully she thought out the things to do. He might be killed by the bulls; they were always savage, coming in from the plains. She frowned to herself and went on faster; she would not let him be killed, only make him do it badly—so that people saw—and then her father could get his way at last and leave her in peace. Or would it be better, better for every one, if he were to be killed, dead and forgotten? He would rather be killed than lose his power—if one could ever judge for another. And she herself, she would forget him, surely she would. Times like today were meant to be forgotten; she would be free again, to start another life of her own, not his nor her father's. She took his ring and threw it hard out of sight, out to sea; and then thought what a fool she was; she might have used it. Never mind, she would use other things. She suddenly remembered Yersha's silver hairpin that had come so opportunely to her hand, and laughed aloud and ran on again till she was back at the breakwater.

She scrambled up, lightlier than ever, and stood on the top, swaying to the wind; by the harbour wall she saw Berris holding a lantern, and called to him. He came, startled. ‘Where have you been, Erif?'

‘Talking to the crabs,' she said. ‘And you? Won't you make me something? Do, Berris! I'll come and blow for you.'

‘Later,' he said. ‘I can't work just now. Oh, Erif, what are you doing to Tarrik?'

‘Doing what father wants.'

‘But not unless you want it yourself,' said Berris, low and eagerly. ‘Father is not a god—nor Yellow Bull. They never think of beauty, they—oh, Erif, I wish I were well out of this.'

‘Do you?' said Erif. ‘You're a man, you can't make up your mind. I can. I'm happy.'

But Berris pulled her over by the sleeve to where the light streamed squarely out from a house window. ‘You don't look it,' he said. ‘Erif—I'm frightened of you when your face is like that!'

B
ERRIS TOOK HER
back to the great door of her own house; the guards lifted hand and sword to their foreheads as she went past, and did not look at her directly; it was no part of theirs to wonder why the Spring Queen of Marob had gone out at night with no servants, no coat, and nothing on her head. Erif Der tossed her plaits back over her shoulders, and grinned at them for the fun of seeing them not take any official notice. Then she kissed her brother and went on alone. She found Tarrik in the Council Hall, sitting in his great chair, with his chin on his hands. ‘I am thinking about the secret road,' he said. ‘You can tell Yellow Bull. I wonder if it will ever be a danger. What do you think will have happened to Marob in ten hundred years, Erif? Will they be our blood, the Chiefs, then?'

He looked at her softly, with those smiling, bright eyes of his. And she looked away, because if she had met them and smiled back, she could not have gone on keeping secrets; she would have told him everything, put herself into his hands, into his mercy and love, done anything he bade her, been a good wife to him, niece to Yersha. Oh, if she could start life again! ‘I can't think so far ahead,' she said huskily, through stiffened lips. ‘I hate the time when I shall be dead! I hate countries I shall never see! I hate stars! I hate things that men have no power over!'

She threw herself down on the floor and hit her head with her knuckles; Tarrik went on speaking from somewhere above her: ‘But time is our own making, Erif. Even time so far off. I wonder if there will be any Marob then, or any Hellas. Athens has been going on for hundreds and
hundreds of years, but I think she is almost dead. And the other cities of Hellas too. Nobody knows how long Marob has been here; people don't think about that; I don't often. And I don't really care much what's going to happen, either. Erif, do you love me?'

‘Yes,' said Erif. Oh, anything not to have to talk just now!

‘I never minded if the others did or didn't,' he said. ‘I expect they did. I always got what I wanted and no one was any the worse. It helped the Corn. In five months it will be Plowing Eve again. I wish I knew what happened at Harvest; I cannot remember it better than a dream, and yet I was not even drunk. At Plowing Eve my head will stay clear, though. Will you help me, Erif?'

She answered ‘No,' but with her face on the floor, so muffled that he did not hear or heed.

‘Ever since I was a man, I have known that I was truly Corn King,' he said. ‘It is a queer thing to have power. But you have power too. So has Berris, but differently. The Greeks used to have power, but it is lost now. Yellow Bull thinks he has power. So does the Council. I am seeing without a cloud now; Erif, why is that?'

But before she could make up an answer, something had happened to drive it out of both their heads. The Captain of the Chief's Guard came running in. ‘Chief!' he shouted, ‘there's a big ship blowing in north of the harbour—her mast's gone and she's nearly on to the shingle!' They both jumped and ran, Tarrik giving orders as he went. At the door he turned and shouted to her: ‘Erif, stay here!' But that was the last thing Erif Der was going to do.

The night was quite different now. A yellowish full moon had risen out of the sea and torn through the clouds to the north-east; even when their jagged edges streamed across it, the puzzling, diffused light went on. Over the hissing and grinding of the waves came other noises; men's voices at top pitch, and sometimes on the back of the gale heart-tearing sounds of timber breaking up, the screech and crash of the strained wood, and sharp improbable sounds there was no time to guess at; and crackling of the bonfires they had lighted high up the beach, and neighing of the sea and fire-maddened horses, and women crying to one another behind; and again and
always, the sea. There was no chance of launching a boat, but the men were wading out with ropes tied round their belts, legs braced against the surf; things were passed from man to man, inshore and up to the bonfires, to be helped back to life if they had breath in them at all. Erif sent a dozen women off to the Chief's house for wine and warm clothes; she could do that, anyhow! Tarrik was nowhere to be seen, and for a time she was so hard at work among the half-drowned sailors that she did not think of him; he would be somewhere. They seemed to be half Scythian and half Greek, perishing with cold and wet and four days of storm and desperate struggle against it before the sides began to strain and gape hopelessly, and at last the mast snapped and killed three of them. They had a hold full of corn from Olbia, the last of the season; and they had left it too long. They gulped down hot wine and huddled themselves in the dry clothes, calling each other by name as man after man was passed up, and asking where they were, thankful to have come on a town and friends and food and rest after that terrible four days, and the storm ending too late to save them.

Tarrik was down in the sea, stripped to the waist and covered with oil for warmth; he was head of one line, as far out as he could keep his footing on the battered shingle. The light from the bonfires on the shore lay out on the surface beyond him as far as the third or fourth wave, so that he got some warning of anything coming in and had a moment to brace himself and take it. Sometimes a man clinging to a plank or swimming weakly in the trough of a wave, sometimes a cask or chest or bit of a mast, once a horrible, heavy strip of torn sail that tangled round his legs and pulled him over into the surf. Further out, between him and the moon, he could see the black, jagged outline of the wrecked ship, heaving and pitching as she broke up.

For more than an hour, though it scarcely seemed five minutes, he had been extremely efficient and enjoying every moment; he was shouting at the top of his voice and using every inch of his strength and skill; his side stung vividly where a splintered plank had grazed the skin; his eyes were used to seeing quickly in the half-lit dark, his arms and shoulders to heaving weights; he had beaten the sea! But now no living thing had come in for nearly ten minutes; he
began to feel the cold at last. One more look out to the wreck before he turned. And there was a man moving on the black against the sky. He yelled out, though he knew it was no use against this wind. But the man had disappeared. For a minute or two he held himself hard against the battling waves, peering out ahead, then at last saw the black smudge on a tearing water crest that meant something coming in. He moved to the right, shouting back to the man behind to be ready, leaning against the weight and struggle of the sea. Then over the top of one great blinding wave the swimmer came at him head foremost, and both were rolled over and over and into the next on the line, one of the guards; he stood firm and held Tarrik, who heaved himself up, choking and cursing, one arm round the man from the ship. ‘Are you the last?' shouted Tarrik, as soon as he got his breath. The man gasped yes, clinging to Tarrik's bare, slippery shoulder. He was small and light, soaked and streaming like a bunch of seaweed; an open cut on his temple was bleeding steadily, smearing his face with pale blood. Between them, Tarrik and the guard helped him in through the fierce shove and suck of the shallow water, and up to the bonfires. And so Sphaeros the Stoic came to Marob.

Erif Der had clothes and hot wine and food for them all; she saw to the graze on Tarrik's side, and odd cuts on his arms and hand; furtively, she kissed his cold back as she helped him on with a shirt. Yellow Bull came up, wetter and wilder looking than one would have thought possible; he had been head of another line of rescuers. ‘That was fine, Chief!' he shouted, and then suddenly caught sight of Erif and remembered and checked and buried his face in a huge cup of wine. But Tarrik was far too excited and happy to notice the change in Yellow Bull, or even see that, for the moment at least, every one was round him again, talking and cheering, forgetting that he had ever been unlucky.

But Yellow Bull drew his sister aside out of the glare of the fires. ‘What have you been doing?' he asked. ‘Wasn't this your time?'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘I suppose so. I forgot. It was so exciting. I'm sorry, Yellow Bull.'

‘Father will be angry.'

‘I know. But—you can tell him there's going to be another chance, quite soon, at the bullfighting.'

‘He's going to try that, is he?'

‘Yes. So you see, then—It will all work out. Yellow Bull, let tonight alone.'

In the meantime Tarrik was giving out the rescued sailors to the chief men in his town, to keep for the moment, anyhow. Time enough tomorrow to see what should be done with them. Nearly all had been saved, not much hurt, including the captain, who kept on talking to anyone who would listen about his insurance. When they had been allotted, all the other things, barrels, rafts, bedding, and whatnot that had been washed up, were heaped at one side and left under guard. Tarrik found the little man he had saved last sitting quietly by the fire, trying to tie up his own cut head; he was managing it very neatly, but his hands were shaking still. ‘What in hell were you doing to stay so long?' asked Tarrik suddenly.

The man looked up. ‘I knocked my head; they thought I was dead and left me. It wouldn't have mattered.'

‘No,' said Tarrik, amused.

‘But you see, when I found I was alive after all, the impulse was too strong for me. Besides I am still hoping to finish my journey.'

‘Where were you going?' Tarrik asked, in Greek this time.

‘To Sparta, to King Kleomenes. I am his tutor.'

‘What do you teach him?'

‘Philosophy.'

‘You had better teach me; I am a king too.'

‘I do not know if you would be a good pupil; if you are, I should be glad to teach you. But Kleomenes needs me.'

‘I have been to Greece, but never to Sparta; they say it is a rich place, where a few have all the power, and most are poor and unhappy.'

‘It is like that now; but States may become better. Who are you, King, and what is your country?'

‘I am Tarrik of Marob; but my name is Charmantides as well.'

‘You are partly Hellene, then?'

Tarrik hesitated a moment, looking the philosopher up and down. ‘I do not choose to think myself Hellene,' he said. ‘I am a barbarian.'

The little man laughed pleasantly and openly, half shutting his eyes. ‘Good!' he said. ‘Now we have something real. I do not think Hellenes are good and barbarians bad, Tarrik of Marob. I think we are all citizens of one world. I think, too, that you have seen the worst sort of Hellene. Isn't that true?'

‘Perhaps. They were not citizens of my world, anyhow. What is your name?'

‘I am called Sphaeros of Borysthenes. You see, I am not quite a Hellene either.'

‘You will come to my house,' said Tarrik. ‘The blood is getting through that bandage. Does it hurt?'

‘Not much. It is of no consequence, anyway.'

‘Perhaps not to you. But I want you to teach me, I want you alive!' He called: ‘Erif! Look: will you make the blood not come?'

Erif Der laid her fingers over the red patch on the bandage, then after a moment took them away sharply, and spoke low to Tarrik: ‘Who is it?'

‘Sphaeros: a Hellene: a teacher of kings. Make him well for me, Erif!'

She frowned and began muttering words and making little movements. Tarrik looked on anxiously, wondering what was the matter. Sphaeros sat quite still, feeling a little weak, only just sometimes lifting a hand to wipe away a trickle of blood from his neck. ‘I can't,' said Erif Der suddenly, ‘I can't! It doesn't work on him!' She jumped up and called to the women for a bowl of water, needle and thread, quick. Then she undid the bandage. ‘This is the other way,' she said to Tarrik, and took his sharp little hunting-knife and cut the hair all round the wound, and then sewed the edges of it together, with her lips pressed up firmly, and eyes fixed on what she was doing. Sphaeros twisted his hands between his knees and shut his eyes, but said nothing, only gave a little gasp when it was all over. Tarrik gave him a cup of wine; the bleeding had stopped; Erif Der turned away and made one of the women pour water over her hands till they were clean.

The next day the Council met; they had to decide what to do with the ship's crew and the few passengers, a merchant with his clerk and two servants, and Sphaeros. The natural thing was to take them as a gift from the sea, and, after
due thanks, enslave them or hold them to ransom. Three generations ago this would have been a certainty; but these were degenerate days. The Council discussed other possibilities. The Chief was being curiously reasonable, hearing both sides and then giving his own opinion, in a way that made Harn Der and his eldest son rather anxious. However, they comforted themselves with the thought of the bullfighting later on. Erif Der might have her own ways, but they could trust her to be loyal to her family.

In the end it was settled that such of the crew as had any money should have a sum fixed to be handed over in spring, whenever a ship came to take them away; the others would have to work for their living, and there would be correspondingly larger sums for the captain and passengers to pay. ‘But as to the Greek, Sphaeros,' said the Chief, ‘I will pay his now; he is my guest.' Any cargo, wood, baggage or provisions washed up from the wreck were to be distributed.

When the Council was ended, Tarrik found that his aunt had asked Sphaeros up to her room and was talking to him. Sphaeros sat on the edge of a chair, looking displeased and faintly uncomfortable; he had already refused offers of money, clothes, books, and exclusive friendship as between Hellenes in a barbarian country, from Eurydice, always with politeness, but still firmly. ‘I am honoured,' he said, ‘but, as you must see, I cannot commit myself yet.' He was a little curious to know more about Erif Der but was too discreet to ask. He had always liked Scythians, rather romantically, perhaps, but then he was more than usually sane and clear-headed over other things. He liked the hardness, the violent living of these riders and fighters, the carelessness of pain. The contrast in his mind was between them and the rich Greek—the kind of life that he saw reflected in this room of Eurydice's—rather than the Wise Greek. The Wise Greek was so very rare, thought Sphaeros: one thought one had found him, but how often one was disappointed. And it seemed to him that this strong, questioning, bare-breasted Tarrik was a Romantic Scythian. But so far he could not quite fit in Eurydice. At any rate, it gave him no pleasure to eat caviare and white bread from golden dishes on an ivory table, and hear rather second-rate poetry read aloud. He did not really mind in the least that
his clothes were slightly torn, and discoloured and shrunk with sea water; in fact, he had not noticed. His sandals were borrowed and on the large side, but he did not even know who was the lender, so he could not possibly fret about returning them.