Seven Days in New Crete

by Robert Graves

  I had eaten my lunch of bread and cheese in the saddle; now I tried to find my way home by a short cut through an oak wood and across some water-meadows. Presently my horse sank up to its fetlocks in mud and I found myself entering a grove of alders planted in a wide spiral. A crane, standing pensively on one leg not far off, observed my approach. It tilted its head, but did not appear alarmed. There were no buildings about, nor any votive offerings on the trees, but it was dear that I had blundered into a sacred grove; I must get out at once and take the proper road. As I turned my horse round I thought I heard the crane squeak shrilly in English: ‘Wait a moment, you!’

  My hair stood on end. I had never been addressed by a bird before, except parrots, budgerigars and one monosyllabic tame raven.

  However, when I looked back it turned out not to be the crane after all; the crane had disappeared. In its place stood a tall old woman, the oldest and dirtiest hag I had ever seen; Gran’mère Michel, the pipe-smoking centenarian of St Jean-des-Porcs, would have looked middle-aged and well-groomed beside her. She must have been crouching in the mud behind one of the trees.

  My dappled rocking-horse began to snort and shiver. ‘Quiet, old boy, quiet!’ I said, but that was no use. The devil had entered into him. He went completely daft and played me all the maddest bronco tricks ever seen in a Wild West rodeo – bucking, plunging, shimmying, barking my legs against trees, jumping sideways like a kitten, trying to bite my feet. The hag stood cackling at us.

  ‘God damn you, you witch!’ I shouted. ‘Calm this beast for me, won’t you?’

  She cackled louder than ever. ‘God! That’s rich! That’s very rich! “God damn you!” he says.’

  In the late Twenties after I had been sent down from Oxford I spent a couple of years on a ranch in Arizona. Since I was the only Britisher within two hundred miles, quite a few rogue horses had from time to time been humorously incited to murder me. So this was nothing new; but the mud was greasy black and I was determined not to be thrown. Somehow I managed to keep my seat until the hag hobbled up, laid a skinny hand on the horse’s withers, and mumbled something to him in New Cretan. Instantly he behaved himself, let out a friendly whinny and started to crop the rank grass at his feet.

  ‘Where the Devil did you spring from?’ I asked, panting and furious.

  ‘First God and now the Devil!’ she squeaked. ‘My dear Teddy, you forget yourself.’

  ‘Please forgive my rudeness, but you scared me. How do you know my name?’

  ‘It’s my business to know names,’ she said. ‘I know everyone’s name hereabouts. What made you ride through my cranery? It’s strictly against rules.’

  ‘I’m a stranger here. I was taking a short cut…’

  ‘You needn’t worry about Sapphire. She’s all right. In fact, you’ll only make things worse if you go back now. There’ll be hell to pay about that cigarette case under Sally’s pillow; not that I think the girl didn’t ask for trouble. You’d better stick around here and watch the fun.’

  ‘What do you know about the cigarette case?’

  ‘I know all I want to know.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather a large claim? Do you by any chance know all I want to know, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t believe that!’

  ‘Look in my eyes!’

  I looked steadily into them. They were as blue as mandarin beads and as sharp as sacking-needles.

  ‘Now, do you believe me?’

  ‘I can’t very well help believing. But when I return to my own sceptical age, how shall I know that – ?’

  ‘Would you like to ask a test question?’

  ‘If you won’t be offended.’

  ‘Nothing ever offends me.’

  Before I could speak she took the question out of my mouth. ‘What you’re going to ask me is: “Who killed M. le Vicomte de Chose et Chose et Martinbault?”’

  I gasped. ‘Well, who did?’ I faltered, after a pause.

  ‘I did myself. I cut his throat with his own hunting-knife. Then I castrated him. I threw the knife into the Alys.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘Who… who are you?’

  ‘I am whatever I choose to be.’

  I seemed to hear Knut Jensen’s voice whispering in my ear: ‘Quick, old boy, remember your manners, or it’ll be the worse for you!’ I leaped off the horse, uncovered, spread out my hands and bowed deeply.

  She grinned at me mischievously. ‘Wasn’t there one more question you wanted to ask me, something about Erica and the coat she was wearing?’

  ‘Th… th… that’s right,’ I answered, lapsing into my childhood stammer. ‘Wh… wh… what was it called?’

  ‘If I tell you, you won’t try to break her neck?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘It was a white walicot.’

  Then it all came back. The witch trial at Aberdeen in 1597, that I had been reading about somewhere, when Andro Man confessed to carnal dealing with the Queen of Elphame who ‘had a grip of all her craft’ and who attended a witches’ sabbath riding a white hackney. ‘She is very pleasant and will be auld and young whenas she pleases,’ Andro Man had testified. ‘She makes any King whom she pleases and she lies with any she pleases.’ The witches called her Our Lady, and she wore a white walicot, which must have been a coat woven with wales or stripes. ‘Then who is Erica?’ I asked in confusion.

  ‘Last night you claimed to know all about her. There’s no more to know than all about her. How do you like New Crete?’

  I blushed, and said slowly: ‘Why ask me, Mother?’

  ‘Mothers often ask their children questions to which they already know the answers.’

  ‘Oh, well – it isn’t really beyond criticism. Though the bread’s good and the butter’s good, there doesn’t seem to be any salt in either.’

  ‘That’s why I sent for you.’

  ‘You sent for me?’

  ‘Of course. Surely, you don’t imagine that the magicians would have done anything so dangerous without my orders?’

  ‘And what are your orders to me?’

  ‘None at the moment. You’re doing nicely, so far. If you get into trouble, consult me.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Anywhere. Or, wait, I’ll give you my pass. You may want to visit a shrine, or a nonsense house, or even a bagnio.’ She fumbled in her dirty rags for some time and at last produced an egg-shaped locket made of crystal. Then she stooped painfully, picked up a crane’s neck-feather that was clinging to a tussock of grass, shut it in the locket and handed it to me.

  I accepted the pass gratefully and kissed her filthy claw of a hand. ‘You’re a good boy,’ she said. ‘I shall be seeing you again one of these days.’

  I bowed deeply, turned, caught my horse by the bridle, but was hardly back in the saddle when she gave him a sudden vicious kick in the rump. He reared, plunged and bounded off at full gallop; I was too busy keeping my seat even to wave a hand in goodbye.

  Chapter XIII

  The Peace Supper

  A few minutes later I was back in Rabnon; Starfish came hurrying up to meet me.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘I tried a short cut home but got held up.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that; you might have trespassed into the alder grove. Are you all right? And have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘I’m all right, thank you. Yes, I’ve finished my lunch. I hope you didn’t wait for me?’

  ‘No, no! We dispense with such formalities in war-time. What do you think of the fighting?’

  ‘I prefer the open Rabnon style, of course; it’s more fun to watch. But I’d probably have said the same about the Highlanders who took such a beating at the battle of Killiecrankie. Who’s going to win?’

  ‘Only the Goddess knows.’

  ‘You’ve got something there,’ I said decisively.

  The trumpet blew the Rally and both armies raced to take up their previ
ous positions. After a second blast the fighting broke out again. Zapmor had closed their ranks and, with the war-token as their standard, made a rush forward.

  Rabnon met them courageously, but despite all efforts they were forced farther and farther back. Screams of alarm and exhortation rose from the Rabnon girls as the enemy rolled forward to the fringe of the green. From the back of the scrimmage rose the voice of the barber of Zapmor in an improvised song of triumph:

  It’s up with the damsons of Zapmor,

  We’ll carry them over the green!

  And it’s down with the cheese-straw and radish –

  That’s food not fit to be seen!

  Open-please who, as Rabnon’s goal-keeper, had been posted all day at the totem-pole to guard against one-man rushes, suddenly began to dance about excitedly and fling his hands up to heaven as if in supplication. Then he kissed his quarter-staff and bounded into the scrimmage with hair bristling and eye-balls protruding. He had clearly gone berserk, drunk with the Goddess whom he invoked roaringly as he ran.

  And it’s up with the cobblers of Zapmor,

  And up with the ochre and black!

  sang the barber. With a prodigious jump Open-please sprang on the shoulders of the tightly packed Zapmor phalanx, seized the war-token, leaped forward again, then sideways, and was off like a hare zig-zagging across the slope below the village. The barber’s song tailed away, but Open-please was out of sight before most of the other Zapmor men realized what had happened. He ran four miles, meeting no opposition, and was in sight of the outlying houses of Zapmor before their general reserve closed with him. Even then he showed no signs of tiring: he knocked two Zapmor men down with his charge, felled two more with heavy blows on their helmets, and broke through. At last, in a narrow lane only fifty yards away from his objective, three men ambushed and held him; but they had to call their goal-keeper and his assistant from the green before he could be overpowered and disarmed. His last frenzied action was to toss the token over a low hedge into a paddock where a few sheep were grazing unattended.

  The Zapmor men did not go after the token at once: they were too busy with Open-please, who had to be drenched with cold water – scooped in their helmets from a near-by pond – before he came out of his berserk trance. When they went, they could not find it anywhere. They searched in the hedge, they searched in the grass, they looked up into the branches of an apple-tree in the paddock. It could not be very far away, but where was it?

  Nobody else was about. They searched methodically for half an hour, until the Zapmor scouts came streaming back, to find them still at a loss. The captain arrived on horseback and urged them to continue their search, while he kept his men well forward, playing the same game of bluff that Rabnon had played earlier in the day. In a few hours the war would be over, and even if the token was not found by then, Zapmor at least would have preserved its honour and could claim the greater number of prisoners.

  About five o’clock the trumpets blew for afternoon prayer, in which everyone joined; after that, for tactical reasons, the Zapmor Captain let his phalanx be forced back for half a mile. The Rabnor men were mystified by the absence of the war-token and suspected a stratagem; but none developed. The day wore on, the battle swayed pointlessly to and fro. In a growing spirit of petulance harder and angrier blows were exchanged and a few men were disarmed on both sides, but it was soon realized by everybody that since Open-please’s heroic performance the war had passed out of human control.

  The only event of interest during this incoherent fighting was a challenge to a duel from the Zapmor captain to his opposite number, who accepted it gratefully. The captains fought on horseback, first tilting at each other with quarter-staffs for lances, then grappling in the saddle. Both were soon unhorsed and continued their struggle in a rough-and-tumble on the turf. They wrestled in the North of England style, with ‘nowt barred’, but with the added complication of their quarter-staffs, which both had managed to keep and which were unhandy weapons for infighting. During the duel the magician on duty had ordered a general truce, and now the captains struggled in the centre of a dense ring, with the Rabnon women in the front rank almost beside themselves with excitement. The issue remained in doubt until Peaches, unable to control herself any longer, ran forward and shouted to the Rabnon captain: ‘If you beat him, I’ll give in to you. Tonight, if you want me. Do you hear? I promise!’

  His strength was failing, but he made one supreme effort. Abandoning his own quarter-staff he snatched at the top of his opponent’s, which lay underneath them, locked his feet and knees around the butt and heaved until the veins stood out on his forehead. A sharp crack, the wood splintered and the duel was won. Peaches darted from the ring to hide her emotion, pursued by her girl-friends who smothered her with kisses. This was a victory to be set off against Zapmor’s successful haul of prisoners but it did not end the war, which dragged on for another half-hour.

  The Cease Fire was blown at dusk and the rival armies lined up facing each other. The priests kissed again, once more exchanged statuettes in token of friendship and began chanting the hymn of peace, in which everyone joined.

  ‘Is this where we go home?’ I asked See-a-Bird.

  ‘That would be very impolite. There’s still the survey of the war to be made and judgement pronounced, after the big peace-supper. That will be held at Zapmor. The village against which war has been declared always provides the feast, whatever the result. We are of course expected to attend.’

  ‘But I feel that I ought to get back to Sapphire.’

  ‘There’s no hurry. She’s in good hands. By the way, Starfish, what’s become of Fig-bread?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since he took charge of the second concussion case about an hour ago.’

  ‘It wasn’t serious, was it?’

  ‘I hardly think so. He ought to be back by now.’

  ‘There was something on my brother’s mind,’ Starfish said, frowning. ‘Perhaps he grew worried about Sally and rode back. In that case, he should have told us. He hasn’t seemed quite himself all day.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ See-a-Bird sighed. ‘Perhaps we’d better make no inquiries about him. His absence may pass unnoticed.’

  I did not tell them about my presentiment, not wishing to spoil the party for them, but I could not help casting an anxious glance in the direction of the cranery.

  ‘Have you any idea where he is?’ Starfish asked me.

  ‘Only the Goddess knows!’ I answered thoughtfully.

  We watched Zapmor march home to wash and change into their gala-clothes. Rabnon dispersed to do the same. Then we rode ahead and brought the Zapmor villagers the news of the later stages of the fighting. They were already making preparations for the feast, which I watched with a greedy enough interest. Hundreds of little, low, heart-shaped tables, each laid with the implements of a four-course dinner and provided with a small olive-oil lamp, had been carried out to the green, and arranged in circles of varying size. Children were now lugging out hassocks, some black, some red, for the diners to sit on, with their legs outstretched and the tables between their knees, in the style of the country. Women servants busied themselves at a long line of earthenware pots that bubbled cheerfully on charcoal fires; men servants, chanting lugubriously, were jointing meat for the roasting-jacks, or beating steaks for the grills. Mountains of French loaves, heaps of Mahon and Brie cheeses, serried rows of pickle-jars, trays loaded with cold meats ready sliced, huge piles of white-fleshed lettuces, baskets brimful of cherries, strawberries, greengages and nectarines, stacked crates of bottled beer. Pies and pastries, cooked in private houses during the day, were now being carried out by the housewives to be kept warm in the communal bread-oven close by. The totem-pole was garlanded with flowers, and illuminated kites in the shape of animals, birds and fishes flew fantastically overhead.

  Presently Rabnon arrived in force, but waited politely just inside a wood near the green until they were summoned to supper by a gong. The women c
ame first, then the men, then the children, and lastly the elders, all in single file, dressed in their gala clothes. They sat down at the little tables wherever they saw red hassocks; the black ones alternating with them were reserved for Zapmor. The servants were too busy cooking, carving and helping out to act as waiters, but Rabnon kept Zapmor’s plates and cups well filled – not, as I had expected, the other way about – and from the start there were no feelings of reserve or animosity between the red and black hassocks, though neither was there any conversation. Among the commons, as among the magicians, talking at meals was prohibited.

  I had resigned myself regretfully to a magician’s vegetarian diet, when I noticed that Starfish and See-a-Bird were both tucking into what looked remarkably like steak-and-kidney pie. Wonderful! So when magicians sat down to eat with people of other estates the taboo on meat was lifted, was it? I quickly secured a large cut off the joint, garnished with roast potatoes, brussels sprouts and horseradish sauce – the boiled dana I dispensed with – and followed this with three or four generous slabs of ham flavoured with cloves, mayonnaise and prawns in aspic. I washed it all down with a quart bottle of strong black beer. Zapmor was a fine place, I decided. Then followed plum-cake, trifle, fruit and black coffee. Zapmor was the finest place in the world, I decided; no wonder its men fought so well!

  At last there came a stir and a subdued rattle, as everyone laid down his dessert spoon or knife; then a dead silence. At the Zapmor captain’s invitation, Starfish rose to survey and judge the day’s fighting: ‘Women and men, children and elders of the Five Estates, please listen! At first this was a pleasant war, fought lovingly throughout the morning and for the earlier part of the afternoon. Afterwards it became loveless and spiritless, except for the noble interlude of the captains’ duel. The issue is still obscure and without precedent: the war-token has vanished without trace.’