The Scarlet Fig: Or, Slowly Through a Land of Stone, Book Three of the Vergil Magus Series (30 page)

No certainty.

Much perhaps.

Why was he of a sudden striding away from the point whereat he stood? Memory of a previous scene moved his legs and feet, was why. Memory of a more than half fallen-down hutch, doubtless intended for a cabin by some alien long ago: alien, for sure these islanders built no structures at all. Were the nights uncommon cool, simply they slept together … not, to be sure, in one great huddled mass … but rather parted into smaller groups which lay, all of a cuddle, each group by an each. Or else: they crept close together to the fire that burns by night, and fed it, many times and often, while the stars moved: for of fallen wood there was no lack where their groves and small forests grew: and of driftwood upon the beach, which had mayhap grown in far Aspamia or in (even) farthermost Thule, where there is little need for wooden fuel, there being (so men say) stones of black ice which burns like pitch-pine:
pyrobolim
***
, so some call them.

And in that withering hovel found he … what? His old soft doe-skin budget, for one. And a mass of rags roughly sewn together so as to form a semblance of a cape: this was none of his.

But twould do.

Here (or, there) was the fire that burns by night. Level daylight it was not, yet the fire burned. Now and then someone passing by languidly fed it; eventually that someone, any someone, every someone, would forget to feed it — how ancient this image of fire as a living thing which craved food and must be fed! — forgotten, it would dwindle and die: then see once again that scene of some man, braver or keener of wit than others, swift run along the main to whatever was their only known source of fire (for as to rubbing hard wood against soft, let alone the sophisticated spark of flint and steel and tinder: certes they knew nought). The old cape, almost coming apart in his hands, was fitter for tinder than for any use of clothing, but he had yet another use for it. Swift he sopped it in a shallow pool nearby, swift he wrung it out till it was but damp. Slowly, slowly, the column of smoke rose up, rose up. He cast the sodden cape upon it.

The column of smoke ceased, was estopped.

At once he swept the cloak away.

The smoke at once arose again.

Once more he covered it with the ragged cloak, that cape of rags.

Again the column of smoke was stopped.

Then he culled the mass of rotting cloth away, cast it aside.

The smoke rose and rose: unvexed again, it rose upon the sleepy air.

X

Isle Mazequa

Far out at sea, the thin vertical line which was a ship’s mast slowly, slowly turned, became broader by the width of a sail. Slowly grew broader, larger, nearer.

When he once again gained the beach, it was to see something like a sort of trade going on. These seamen were Sards, he was sure of it: those curious and deliberately lop-sided hats — bonnets, one might almost call them; the wrapped-twice-around-yet-still-loose neckerchiefs of faded red, the yellowish-brown trews — slanders of other seamen traditionally had it that these garments, coming only three-quarters of the way down the legs, had always been originally white but were never washed; Vergil knew their hue came from rough and home-made dye: and then, too, a certain look, undescribable as it was unmistakable: all proclaimed them Sards. There was, to be sure, a certain class of Sard freebooters, but they were not numerous. And certainly the look of these was merely rough, as was the everyday look of poor folk on every day not a festival day; rough, yes … but not ruffianly. Certain things were being passed from hand to hand; he recognized the pearly, opalescent sheen of moonstones, and the fine striking colors of as yet un-cut tourmalines. These one saw fairly often in Lotusland and the island-folk themselves sometimes picked them up and carried them away as idly as children with any unusual rocks or stones. Likely the Lotophages played some simple game with them … and then simply dropped them: there were always more … somewhere …

The Sards, in exchange, were passing over all sorts of rubble: mirrors shattered past hope of sale or trade in any ordinary mart in the whole Œconomium, cups saunce handles though clearly handles they had once had, boxes with broken lids or nay lids at all, scraps of cloth more brightly colored than any of the crewmen’s trews or neckcloths, hats outmoded and much battered: all sorts of rubbish.

When the supply of tourmaline and moonstone showed sign of running low, the Sards produced something as an inducement for more; more was forthcoming. The islanders had not been holding out, merely it had been a trouble to try and seek. Now here was something well-worth the trouble.

The Lotophagi received the sweet wine with soft soft sounds of pleasure. They would not plant the vines nor trench them nor wed them to the poplar and the elm to hold up the grape-heavy branches; and certainly neither would they make them presses nor tred the wine-fruit out with their feet … though possibly if this had been made into a game for them, with music and with song, they might have done so. Briefly. Certainly they had no sophisticated tastes; they did not require hippocras, that vile mixture of very bad wines, itself sophisticate with many bad spices; neither had they developed the corrupt palate which fancies the taste of pitch in wine, and which actually prefers the wine of that sort of grape which was said to have naturally the taste of pine-sap. Wine, sweet wine, did not have to be very, very sweet for them to like it. With soft sounds of pleasure they received and drank of it.

But by and by they did not trouble themselves to go in search of any more moonstone or tourmaline. There was no ivy mingled with the cheap, douce wine. It did not make the Lotophagi run mad, let alone turn anthropophagi like followers of certain drunken cults. Merely they layed them down to sleep.

Of course to the inhabitants they were, for the moments that the novelty lasted, not rubbish at all. And if the hotchpotch and galimaufry was of no actual benefit to them … why, neither were the moonstones or the tourmalines for which they sold them. (Not that it was likely that they considered the matter in any other light than an exchange of presents: baubles for baubles, play-pretties for others of the same.) For that much, of what actual, intrinsic use were the tourmalines, the moonstones, or any other gems or jewels? none whatsoever: they could not be eaten, drunk, nor used as tools. Well … diamonds were sometimes so worked as to be able to cut glass … and an old word which Vergil seldom forgot was that in
verbis et herbis et lapides
— but here he suddenly dropped all thought of science or art or philosophy; one of the island folk taking notice of his presence with a slight word and slight gesture, see every man jack of the Sard shipmen turn as one. And of that sudden second, freeze.

After a very long moment, one of them (later he learned it was Polycarpu the captain of the craft — it was a small-enough craft, too —) spoke, not without a moving up and down of the apple in his thick neck. His words were in a tone clearly meant to be conciliatory, but Vergil noted well how the seamen, the shipmen, slowly gan to fan out as though to encircle him. “As you may see, me Lord Ser, we are only small folk,” he said … in Punic! surely no folk he had ever encountered, the same being of the “old sea,” the Mediterranean, ever looked less like Punes! … “— small folk, a-trying to do a small deal in what’s they called, ‘semi-precious stones,’ such a trade, we believes, being entirely licit undern the rules of Great Cartage,” and the light burst upon Vergil: it was not that
they
were Pune, it was that they thought that
he
was! And, despite his own better nature, he reckoned to have a little sport with them.

“Such being the case,” he endeavored to make his own Sidonian sound as much like Carthagan as he might: no great hard thing, for constant commerce between the old Phoenician cities and the new had kept them from shifting and changing much; “… being the case, how is’t that you have endeavored also to deal in …
purple …
?”

In a moment he regretted having tried the jape, for the man turned absolutely yellow; had he been of ruddy color, he would have turned white. At once Vergil swift began in Latin, “Nay, but take no notice of my very bad manners, I am a Latin man, the same as you, a citizen of Rome,” briefly he thought of groping in his budget for the old badge of bull’s hide, SQPR,
Senatusque Populusque Romanum
estamped upon it; but forbore. “— and no Pune at all,” see the natural tan of sea and sun return to the shipman’s face; “and as for whatsoever kind of trade is yours, I care not, for —”

“But you be a mage! else how could you know —?”

Vergil gestured. “I see that some leaves of orchil-flowers have been near enough t’ your wristband to have been crushed upon it … added but a few drops of water, likely when you took a drink, added but a bit of lime, perhaps from a cargo of it: and the result? a smear or smudge of violet color … well … violet color
once
. And if indeed you propose to make navigations in waters where Carthage, old or new …” He did not finish the sentence. “Violet is not indeed true purple, but … another shirt is what I should suggest.”

The man stretched his arm to see the stain plain, swore, made as if to remove it on the spot, somewhat relaxed.

“ ‘Not indeed true purple,’ no, but near enough to run this sark red, be any Carthagan ships about. Lord Ser, me thanks for a-pointing of it out, I never gave thought … Well, I shall cut and burn this damned wristband in another minute. I say, nay: but only a mage could have discerned of it, and coupled twain and twain thegether.”

His men whispered, muttered, growled. But there were no more movements hinting at encirclement. Said one, in a speaking-tone at last, “If that be clare from just a spackle on a wristband, best we’d best wash and scrape the deck, and check they tayckle for some other tell-tale taint.”

And another urged, “And afore doing of that, be better best to hug up all the orchil and give it to offering for nap tewm —”

“Nap tewm?” asked Vergil.

“Th’owd king. Owd King Naptewm, a whose beard is green, they’m say, and smell’s o’ fish. E nows the dipth of every sea. Better ‘e gets all o’ it than the Cartage men take owt o’ it, and ang us on a tree, such is they manner and wont —”

And yet another shipman uttered his own caution. “After cutting of our hentrials out and grilling same as a relish for they savage dogs.”

But the thick-necked man, and it seemed his neck grew thicker, all but roared his scorn. “You knew what barber we might be trimmed by when you came aboard this adventured navigation! Stay here, then, if you like, and give surrender to your lay of the cargo as lies hid beneath the jars of limekilned and burnded oyster-shells! Stay here, and drink yourselves sotty until you’ve forgotten use of tongue and tool and wander naked as any —”

Very suddenly he stopped and turned a deeper shade and attempted to pretend that, suddenly, no one was aware that Vergil was naked as any islander: that is, as the days they all were born — save only that no natal-cord dangled a-peep from out a belly-band. And, for that matter, neither did they (or he) have even upon them so much as else a belly-band.

Quietly he said, “You will do as you will do. Only but I caution you to taste no drop of this sweet ruddy nectar of the lotus, for I drank of it, I was marooned because of it, and I am naked, now, because of it. I dwell at Naples; is it possible that you can give me a passage in that way?”

One by one they all nodded. Some nodded more soonly, some more slowly, some more deeply.

But they all nodded.

Yes.

The secret of the
Castor and Pollux …
(“A small ship for so long a name?” “Them be’s the famous Gemini Twins, My Sir. As we only calls they
Castor and Pollux
for short. Beseeing as how they’d shared the one hegg shell for their gemination, and which it had hample room for they both, we think they’ll take it as a hint so we’ll hall have a suffice of room in this small craft, no much larger has a small hegg shell, ye might say” “I quite see.” “We thought, too, we’d gain a double blessing by such a nime. Has they not seldom is beseen a riding of the wives in tide of storm.” “I quite see.” And Polycarpu, much gratified by his passenger’s grasp of mythology and method, smiled a wide and pleasant smile.)