"All this came rushin' upon her with the vividness and force of a dream. 'Cos as you know, you can' control a dream and they can sometimes be frightenin'. She jumped up from where she was sittin' and ran a little way-as if that would enable her to leave behind what she'd just discovered!-her mouth open and her cheeks burnin'. Yet the god made no move to pursue her, though now she could plainly see for herself how strongly he was inclined to that. He was able to bear with her fear and frailty as she herself was not.
"Now some people will tell you that Lespa knew then and there that this was Shakkarn and that she was loved by a god. But I've known others who will haveit that her humility and self-acceptance were much greater than that- that she simply accepted in all simplicity that she wanted to be basted by a goat. But myself, I doan' believe she thought anythin'-not consciously-at all. She simply surrendered herself to the inmost heart, like a bird that knows when it's time to fly south. And yet that's not altogether right either, for the birds can't resist-they just have to fly south-and Lespa-oh, yes, she could have resisted and run away from herself and from the god. There's thousands do-and by Kantza-Merada! can' you tell them when you have to do with them, too? This is the whole secret of the beginnin' of Lespa's divinity-that at the first she was afraid, shocked-probably even disgusted to be confronted with her own animal nature-but she knew-she had the courage to know-what to accept, just the same as she'd known what to reject after Baltis had been taken away.
"Falterin'ly, she came back to Shakkarn on the brink of the pool; and then she herself welcomed him, and she herself began what they were to do between them. There's one thing you can be quite sure of, banzi, as I've told you again and again; that whatever virtues you attribute to the gods, decency and shame are not among them. Shakkarn's more sublime and no more respectable than a thunderstorm or a flood.
"Now I've heard this story misused and profaned more times than I can tell you. In the Lily Pool at Thettit they had a whole room decorated with pictures of Lespa and
the goat, and fellows used to pay extra to go and do it there. You simply can' get the truth across to some people: it's like blowin' a trumpet in the ear of a stone-deaf man. These stories are no good unless you find them and feel them for yourself. The whole point is that two completely different and contradictory things can be true at one and the same time. Sweet, bonny Lespa, who wouldn' have hurt a fly, as they say, was doin' somethin' everyone else would call filthy and abominable, which she herself knew to be the world's truth and a divine gift which she simply wasn't prepared to go on livin' without, whatever it mights cost her. '
"And that," cried Occula, jumping up, refilling her goblet and slamming down the wine-jug so that the knives jumped on the table, "that's what makes the ruddy world go round-for those who doan' prefer to keep it standin' still. It takes courage!
"Now the way some people tell it, after that day Shak-karn and Lespa became lovers and used to meet in the wood, until someone or other in the village noticed and began to wonder where it was she used to go and what she was up to. But others say that everythin' happened that very same morning. It dun't really matter, and I'll go on with what does.
"There was an old woman out gatherin' sticks, same as sweet Lespa, and as she came up through the wood she heard somethin' that people doan' mistake for anythin' else, do they? the cryin' and babblin' of a girl in pleasure. Now any honest person with any sort of heart at all, if they find they've happened to stumble on somethin' like that, they go off the other way, doan' they? and take care not to make any noise into the bargain-"
"We never tell: you won't?" murmured Maia.
"What say, banzi?"
"Nothing. I was only just on remembering something, that's all."
"Uh-huh. Well, this pokin', nasty-minded old woman wasn't one to tell shit from puddin', let alone a goat from a god. Oho! she thinks: some dirty wench is enjoyin' herself havin' it off in the wood and I'm not. I'll just look into this, I will, for the sake of village decency, and see what's goin' on! She might just as well have said, 'Watch what's goin' on', but she didn'. And so she came creepin' up
among the trees and she saw for herself the claspin' and the mastery.
"Oh, wasn't there just a screamin' and a scrunchin' when she came runnin' back into the village? I dare say you could have heard her at Kabin from Zeray, if only she'd been there. Pity she wasn'. She didn' think of goin' and havin' a word with Lespa's mother on the quiet, as any right-minded person would 'a done. 'Oh! Oh!' she screams at the top of her voice, so they all come runnin' out to see if she was on fire. 'Oh! Oh! Do you know what I've seen? Do you know what I've just seen?' (Makin' the most of it, see?) 'That filthy, dirty hussy Lespa-r-her as wouldn' look at any boy up and down the village this twelvemonth gone and now we know why, doan' we? That horrible, unnatural trollop-'
" 'What?' they all cried. 'Oh, what, oh, what?'
" 'Up in the wood! Bastin'-with a goat! A goat, quite big, a big goat! Wait till I tell you all the details!'
" 'We'll burn her!' shouted someone. "That's witchcraft, that is! Couplin' with a familiar! Sorcery! Necromancy! In our village!'
" 'And what's more, she was enjoyin' it!' shouted the old woman.
" 'That's the worst of all!' they cried.
"So then they all came out as against a thief, with swords and staves, and they were all sayin' what they were going to do to her and inventin' things as they went along. And they reached the wood and came burstin' in among the trees.
"Lespa and Shakkarn were lyin' easy beside the pool. Or maybe they weren' lyin' easy-how would I know? They must have heard the villagers comin', of course, from a little way off, but Shakkarn was a god, wasn' he? and he wasn' goin' to stop doin' anythin' he had a mind to just because of a bunch of ten-meld mortals-or any other mortals, come to that. And beautiful Lespa, she loved and trusted Shakkarn, and anyway she knew now who he was and although she must have felt troubled and-well-annoyed, I s'pose, and prob'ly frightened at bein' interrupted at such a time, she wasn' goin' to back down or run away. She was the beloved of a god, and anyway Lespa always had the heart of a queen.
"Well, up they all came, and of course they didn' even think of taflcin' to Shakkarn, 'cos he was just a dirty, nasty
goat, wasn' he? They began screamin' and shoutin' at Lespa, ali shakin' their fists, and her standin' there without a stitch on, but no one thought to throw her a cloak or turn aside while she put on her clothes. And then someone threw a stone at her and hit her on the shoulder so that she cried out, and she was bleedin'.
"Then Shakkam got up and stood in front of her and fixed his great, golden eyes on the rabble as they pressed forward. There was one man-a tailor, he was-who had a bean-pole with a sharp point in his hand, and he made a poke with it at Lespa's arm. And with that the whole lot screamed with shock and fear, for in that very moment each one of them felt that point jabbin' into their own arms, just as if it had been them. They didn' need any more after that. They turned and ran, helter-skelter, and in half a minute there wasn' a soul in the wood but Lespa and the lyre-horned god.
"And then Lespa found that in some way she'd become lighter than the summer mornin' air. She was floatin' with Shakkarn up through the trees and then higher than that. She wasn' cold and she wasn' bleedin' and 'naked' was a word that had no meanin' as far as she was concerned, any more than it might have for a dragonfly or a swallow. And Shakkarn-he'd reassumed his true, divine form, though what that may be how can I or any other mortal tell? You and I would have been struck blind to look at him, but not his consort, upon whom he'd conferred his divinity. From morn to noon they rose, from noon to dewy eve, a summer's day, and with the settin' sun came to the zenith and the palace prepared for Lespa among the stars. And there she took up the work of the goddess that she'd become; 'cause if you think the gods doan' work, let me tell you they work a damn' sight harder than anyone else, except that it's not drudgery, but more like the work of some great musician or sculptor, so I've always understood.
&nbs
p; "Lespa, doan' you see, she'd attained what all women seek, and that's completion; that completion whose every heart lies in its imperfection. And this is what she offers night by night to anyone with the courage and the patience to attempt it as she did. She sends dreams out of the darkness and the stars, and she asks you riddles and sets you puzzles and she stirs up the whole boilin' pot of Shakkarn to send fumes into your sleepin' head. Lespa of the
Inmost Heart: shall I tell you what she's like? Back home- oh, back home-"
"Who's crying now?" asked Maia.
"Shut up!" cried the black girl passionately. "Back home, in Silver Tedzhek, where I was born, there was a great, tessellated courtyard in front of the temple of Kantza-Merada, all green and gold. The tiles were glazed and hard as rock. One day, when I was still just a banzi, I was playin' there, waitin' for Zai-my father-an' I saw the green shoot of a plant stickin' up through the pavement. It was a nettle, no stronger than a bit of cloth. It had split the tile. I left it alone. If the goddess wanted Jo split her tiles- she's always doin' it-that was her business."
There was a silence. Then Maia said, "You're a nettle, too, aren't you?"
"You attend to your business and I'll attend to mine," replied Occula. "But I'll tell you this, banzi: it takes courage to puzzle out what Lespa's sayin'. She never tells you what to do: she tells you where you are. After that you're on your own."
Through the northern window shone for a few moments the lights of the lower city clocks telling the hour.
"Still, you woan' want to go home on your own, will you?" said Occula. "D'you think your soldier's come back by now?"
74: EUD-ECACHLON ASKS A QUESTION
Night by night the great comet poured out its hazy brightness into the northern sky, and throughout the city anxiety and wonder gradually diminished as still nothing happened and the prodigy became a thing accustomed. The priests, shrewdly no doubt, avoided committing themselves beyond affirming that the gods had given assurance (none knew how) that the apparition portended no harm. One day a crowd of orderly and respectful suppliants succeeded in confronting the chief priest as he was entering the Temple of Cran by the front portico, when to avoid or ignore them would have appeared undignified and perhaps even weak. He replied to their questions with grave self-possession and suavity.
"Consider," said he, "that many thousands of years ago the moon must have appeared in the sky for the first time. Can you imagine how astonished and bewildered the people of those days must have been to see it? What rumination and presentiment they must have suffered-yes, suffered, for of course they were only poor, ignorant folk in those days, without the benefits of modern knowledge and of all this" (waving his hand towards the spacious precinct and the Tamarrik Gate). "To this day, how inexplicable, even if predictable, remain her phases, her waxings and waitings! Yet the moon is a blessing and no one now would dream of attributing ill-omen to the moon."
"Is the great star here to stay, then, my Guardian?" asked someone in the crowd.
"How do we know?" he replied. "Yet since you ask me, I would say not. All I am explaining to you is, that not every sign among the stars need or should be taken as the forerunner of some great change, let alone of disaster."
"So the Serrelinda was right?" called out someone else.
"Not having heard her speak, I cannot say," he answered with a sedate and condescending smile. "Our astrologers, of course, have spent many years of study in learning their expert skills. I entertain nothing against the Serrelinda-"
"Better not!" muttered someone.
"She has served the city superbly in her way. We have to serve it in ours." He spread his arms wide and raised his voice. "I will pray to Cran and Airtha to bless you all for honest and true-hearted Beklans, whom the gods surely love."
His scarlet-bordered robes swished on the pavement as he turned and ascended the steps into the noon-shadowed portico.
At about the same time Maia, who had begun-and to her credit was sticking to-a couple of hours' work a day on improving her reading and (which she found a good deal harder, since it had never really existed) her writing, was lying in the hammock in her garden, wrestling with a romance lent to her by Sarget, about the deeds of the hero Deparioth. Like nearly all people of relatively young civilizations-and certainly like virtually everyone in the Bek-lan Empire at this time-Maia found it natural to read to herself aloud, and her soft, rather pretty voice, stumbling and hesitating over the more difficult words, mingled with
the lapping of the Barb and the intermittent piping of a damazin among the trees.
"Give back the-the miry-miry-solitude, The thorns and briars-out-er-outstretched to
bless.
There lay my-kingdom, I reckon that is-past compare.
This court's the desert-something wild-wilderness."
She knew the story well. This was Deparioth's lament for the loss of the mysterious girl they called the Silver Flower, who, having saved his life in the terrible Blue Forest, had then vanished forever. She read it through again.
"Give back the miry solitude, The thorns and briars outstretched to bless. There lay my kingdom, past compare. This court's the desert wilderness."
The Blue Forest she knew by repute for a wild and savage place in northern Katria, beyond the borders of the empire; somewhere near where, so she'd heard, the Zhair-gen ran into the Telthearna. She began to muse, the scroll laid aside. If she were really to put her mind to it, could she get to Katria? Might she be able to reach the Zhairgen quickly and secretly, and then somehow cross it before she was missed? How far was it to the Zhairgen, anyway? It was, she knew, generally reckoned a good four or five days' journey to Dari-Paltesh; and the Zhairgen lay beyond that.
Oh, she thought, if only things could just be back as they were that night in Suba; the night he brought the daggers! We knew our own hearts then, and that was all we needed to know. "Give back the miry solitude-"
Suddenly her melancholy thoughts were interrupted by a cry of "Maia! Where are you?" It was a man's voice- one that she remembered well enough but could not instantly put a name to. She stood up, and as she did so caught sight of someone approaching from the direction of the house. As the voice called again, she realized why she had felt so much startled. It was an Urtan accent. Yet it was not-no, it was not Anda-Nokomis. For a moment she had thought it was, and now she felt disappointed that
it wasn't. Fancy that! she thought. A moment later Eud-Ecachlon came running down the grassy path to the hammock and took her hands.
To Maia Eud-Ecachlon, a man in his mid-thirties, had always seemed old-certainly much older than any of his friends in Bekla. Though he associated with Elvair-ka-Virrion and other young Leopards on equal terms, she had always thought of him as a man nearer to the generation of Kembri, Sendekar or Sarget-as indeed he was. She recalled his rather slow, stolid ways, his diffidence and the contempt with which Occula had once referred to him as "a one-balled Urtan goat". Yet she well remembered, too, the last time they had been together-how long ago it seemed! during that afternoon in Melekril last year, when, standing in for Occula, she had given him the time of his life. That had been great fun and she had enjoyed it herself- at least to the extent of feeling that she had done a good job and a bit more besides. She recalled, too, how warmly she had spoken of their meeting again on his next return to Bekla from Uriah; for she had been quite carried away by her own skill and success that afternoon. No, she thought, she had never disliked Eud-Ecachlon.
To her eyes he was looking, if anything, even older. There was more gray in his beard and somehow his thickset body had about it an impalpable air of bearing a burden. Yet here he was, greeting her with warmth and cordiality-no trace of constraint or self-consciousness now- and obviously delighted to see her again.
She was pleased enough to see him, too; invited him to stay to dinner and felt glad when he accepted. He spoke, naturally, of the Valderra and of her celebrity in the empire. "Urtah would die for you," he said. "Do you know that? If Karnat had o
ver-run Urtah-" And she, of course, let pass the awkward topic of Urtah's present loyalty to Bekla and thanked him graciously, wondering how much he was not telling her about the dissidents who were doing their best to stir up trouble in the province.
They spoke, too, of the murder of the High Counselor and the strangely unsuccessful search for the killers. Eud-Ecachlon inquired after Occula and seemed distressed when Maia replied that she could not tell what might have become of her after the arrests.
"Poor girl!" he said. "I suppose they must have done away with her. What a shame! She had such style, hadn't
she? I don't mind telling you, that night when she made Ka-Roton stab himself I was terrified; but I must admit he had asked for it. Got a bit more than he bargained for, didn't he?"
Later, when dinner was over, she showed him Ran-dronoth's miniature, carved cabinet; for she remained continually delighted by it and could not resist showing it off, though she said nothing about where it had come from. Eud-Ecachlon took it in his hands and admired it politely, though without any very close examination, so that she perceived what she could have guessed-that such things did not mean much to him and were rather beyond his powers of appreciation. Well, but all the same, they'd come her way a lot less than his, she thought. Although she'd not been brought up among beautiful things, she could nevertheless feel naturally thrilled by something as rare and marvelous as this. She thought of the Thlela and their dance of the Telthearna on the night of the Rains banquet in Kembri's house. She had never before seen the Thlela, yet she had needed no teaching that night.
It was while Eud-Ecachlon was still holding the cabinet in his hands and at any rate giving the appearance of examining it that he remarked, with no particular alteration of expression or manner, "My father's ill, you know."
"The High Baron, Euda? I'm very sorry to hear it. I hope it's not serious?"
He closed the little doors and latched them. "Well, he's old, you know: I'm afraid he may not recover. Everyone in Urtah thinks the same, really."
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