‘That’s awkward; because I left him lying on his face by the roadside, about a mile back.’
‘Did you indeed? I hope he’s not ill.’
‘I don’t think so. But I believe I said something I shouldn’t have said. He threw himself suddenly on the grass and refused to move.’
‘What did you say to him? Perhaps you’d better spell it, though, or you may send us all down on our faces.’
‘I mentioned a legendary character called Mother C.A.R.E.Y. I spoke in New Cretan, using Mam for mother.’
‘How very unfortunate; that happens to be a dreadfully sacred name. It’s lucky for you that you’re under protection. She’s the Goddess of Wind and when initiates hear her name spoken in the Mysteries, they fling themselves down at once and wait until they hear the counter-charm. Otherwise she’d blow them over the moon.’
‘Heavens! I’d better ride back and say the counter-charm. What is it?’
‘Excuse me, but I’m under oath neither to say, spell or even hint at it.’
‘That’s terrible. Do we leave him there until the grass grows over him?’
‘A little grass won’t hurt him,’ said Quant drily. ‘Unfortunately, there’s only one person capable of undoing the charm, and that’s the High Priestess, and she’s not allowed to say either the name or the charm except at the winnowing-feast once a year; but the corn’s still quite green. Anyhow, don’t haul him to his feet, or the Goddess will blow him over the moon.’
‘Do you believe that, Quant?’
‘About being blown over the moon? Well, it’s our way of speaking. I don’t know how literally to take it, because nobody has ever dared to transgress the order. All I can say is that people who transgress in other ways, die in other ways.’
‘How did Sapphire die?’
‘Oh, she was given a dose of the drug we call lethea. Her transgression was an involuntary one, so she’s to be reborn as a commoner. If she had deliberately secreted that metal affair because she admired it, that would have been an obvious lapse in taste and she’d be reborn as a servant. Of course, the servants’ estate is as honourable as the commons, but since they have, by definition, no taste of their own they’re permitted to furnish their living quarters with any glittering rubbish they please. However, in either case the fault is venial, not mortal. For a mortal transgressor there’s no rebirth. Being bad, and knowing himself bad, he’s hypnotized by a witch and made to leap head first from a cliff.’
‘Then is there a statutory penalty for every form of transgression? I’d like to see your code.’
‘No, we have no code, no lawyers, no judges. Each case is heard by the transgressor’s estate as if it were the first and only one, and judgement is left to himself to pronounce after he’s heard his own evidence.’
‘I don’t quite follow.’
‘A person may have persuaded himself that he was within his rights in doing this or that; it’s only when he describes it to his neighbours that he can make up his mind.’
‘Are there never any miscarriages of justice?’
‘I don’t think that I can answer that question; there are no penalties, you see.’
‘But isn’t death a penalty?’
‘Not with us. It’s a gift.’
‘I see,’ I said doubtfully. ‘Well, where am I likely to find Sapphire?’
‘You mustn’t call her that any longer, but she’s to be reborn as the daughter of my late sister, who’s a commoner at Dunrena now. My sister sentenced herself to death for a similarly venial transgression. But that was long ago.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She lost her temper at croquet and threw her mallet into a tulip bed. She complained that Mallet-head was giving her advice and putting her off her game. Everyone was relieved when she went; she hadn’t the makings of a recorder.’
‘Well, Quant, don’t you think I’d better go back to Nervo?’
‘Why? What good can you hope to do?’
‘I might try saying that name backwards.’
‘There can be no harm in trying,’ Quant said non-committally. ‘But probably we’ll have to build a little hut over him and wait for the autumn equinox.’
Ten minutes later I was back on the outskirts of Rabnon. Nervo was still lying palefaced in the same position, and ants were crawling all over him. The silly chump! A captain, too! For a moment I was tempted to lug him to his feet. Then I remembered that he had gone out of his way to thank me for his new nickname, and decided that it would be unkind in the circumstances to get him blown over the moon – whatever that meant. Besides, I might feel the draught myself.
‘Come back the word I spoke just now!’ I said; but nothing happened. Then I tried: ‘YERAC MAM’, in not very convincing tones.
Nervo stirred uneasily, and I repeated the word with more confidence. It worked. He sprang up, bowed nine times to the North like a monkey on a stick, and ran to mount his horse.
He did not seem in the least scared or put out, and we resumed our conversation at the sentence before the last. So far as I could make out, he was quite unaware of what had happened. ‘A very odd thing, Sir,’ he said. ‘Ants are crawling up and down my neck. Decidedly odd. They must have worked their way up from the horse’s hooves. I wonder what they portend. Do you happen to know?’
‘You’d better consult Sally or Starfish,’ I said. ‘I’m no authority on omens. But, at a guess, I should say that ants on the neck portend a rising wind.’
Would I ever get accustomed to the fairy-tale ways of New Crete? Such fantastic ingenuousness of faith! Yet, without such ingenuousness what strength had religion? And without a strong religion, what restraints could be imposed on individual knavery? Nothing effective in the long run, as history showed. Then, in order to lead what philosophers call ‘the good life’ without crime or poverty, must people be practically half-witted? Apparently: indeed, I told myself, it was only an epoch like the Late Christian that demanded a full and constant exercise of one’s wits. Money was the best whetstone for the individual intelligence, and in the American Century to which I was committed on my return – unless I cared to renounce my intelligence altogether and emigrate to Russia – it was likely to be the only whetstone. The freedom of religious belief promised us was, of course, a contradiction in terms. Where a central secular authority, squarely based on the command of money, was imposed on all members of a nation, with the reassurance that their religious beliefs were their own private concern so long as no breach of the peace was committed, true religious values went. There could be no true religion except in a theocratic community. And when – as in America – even a constitutional monarchy, the last tattered vestige of primitive theocracy, had been repudiated, no values remained but money values. The richer the man, the sharper his wits; the sharper his wits, the blunter his religious sense. On the other hand, the richer the man, the greater the need to consolidate his social position, and that could be achieved only by a mock restoration of the superseded values. Thus, the sharper the wits, the statelier the churchgoing, which was a phenomenon to which Americans pointed with pride. Cry woe on the rich men of Capernaum! But they had their reward on earth, and though Jesus declared that no man could serve God and Mammon, but all must submit wholeheartedly to the Mosaic Law, the Law itself jingled with gold and silver shekels. Well, I was only a poor European, an incorrigible recusant, for whom none of the higher seats in the synagogue was reserved. Nor did Russia appeal to me in the least: the regime was anti-poetic. However, if I had to choose between New Cretan half-wittedness and American whole-wittedness, I was simpleton enough to choose the former and avoid stomach ulcers, ticker-tape and Sunday best. But come! The wind was rising: things were at last beginning to happen even in New Crete.
We overtook our contingent not far from Dunrena. I recognized the place as Martinbault-les-Dames, in my day a mediaeval walled town from which the Vicomte had derived his title. The walls were now gone and the greater part of the town was built around the lip of a huge
crater, about a quarter of a mile across, close to the original site. Quant could not tell me when or how the crater had been formed – to me it suggested the explosion of a vast ammunition dump – but I heard the servants talking with awe about the prophetic fish that rose in answer to prayer from the unplumbed depths of its waters.
A smooth white marble palace with tapering spires and formal gardens dominated the town. We marched towards is crenellated gates, Nervo at the head, myself unwillingly bringing up the rear. I had intended to go at once into the town to find Sapphire – Quant had given me the name of his changeling sister – but Nervo protested that it would be a disgrace if we entered the palace grounds without a magician. ‘Stay with us, until the Witch turns up,’ he pleaded with tears in his eyes.
‘I’m no trained magician,’ I said, ‘and I won’t know what’s expected of me.’
‘No matter. You ride a white horse. That will be enough to preserve our honour. Remember, it’s in jeopardy. The strange things that have been happening at the Magic House, you know. There’s already talk at Zapmor of a war against us. This might well bring them out with their conches. And what will the Queen say to our lack of the fifth estate?’
Then he produced a silk flag with the village emblem – a horned lamb – attached it to a stick that telescoped out to six feet, and signed for the band to strike up. We swung down a flagged colonnade between red and white roses to the tune of Brian Boru’s March until, wheeling around a huge amethyst-coloured mimosa, we came in sight of the Royal Box.
The King, more than a little drunk, with a small golden crown perched unsteadily on his bright red hair, was cheering the march-past and pelting each contingent with sweetmeats. He wore a white silk shirt with purple cuffs, white knee-breeches and a purple sash. Around him sat twelve beautiful girls, nymphs of the months, all dressed in different colours with emblematic head-dresses; and the Queen, wearing a much grander crown and a robe of scarlet and gold, sat enthroned and motionless above him.
As we passed, Nervo gave an ‘eyes right’, and three royal lumps of nougat flew from the Box. The first struck Quant on the shoulder, the second missed, the third grazed my knee. Quant at once fell out and joined a group in a railed enclosure to the right of the Box. At a sign from him I dismounted, handed my horse to a servant, and followed suit.
‘We’re in luck,’ whispered Quant. ‘We get reserved seats at the Royal Performance tonight.’
As we entered the enclosure a servant offered us drinks in small medicine glasses.
‘What’s this?’ I asked him, sniffing suspiciously.
‘To dull your senses, Sir.’
‘Why should I want to dull my senses?’
‘Against the fatigue of seeing so many new faces pass by.’
‘I’ve seen them all before,’ I answered, handing the glass back.
Chapter XX
The Sights of Dunrena
The contingents marched past the Royal Box all morning: some of them had come from the other end of the kingdom, which covered most of what used to be the South of France. We watched for an hour or so, until the King’s aim began to grow wild. Then one of the nymphs handed him a toy arquebus that released a volley of sweetmeats when he pressed the trigger, and kept it continually loaded. Gradually the enclosure filled with his bag.
Quant told me that we were free to go when we pleased and offered to take me to see his former sister. I was glad to leave; I was getting rather bored. As we left the enclosure by the back gate an attendant gave us each a goosefeather with a red tip to wear on our hats as tickets of re-admission.
‘Have you got any grease-paint?’ I asked Quant.
‘Of course. For a look-away symbol?’
‘Yes, in case we run into Sally. I wonder why she hasn’t turned up yet.’
‘I’m wondering too. It’s unheard-of for a magician to be absent from a parade.’
There must have been some thirty thousand people in Dunrena that day, more than ten times its normal population, and a canvas city was being erected in the Great Park. The tents were pitched not in straight lines but in a spiral, which was constantly being enlarged by new arrivals. Each tent flew its village flag. As we went past, the quiet surprised me: there was no shouting, no singing, no music; everyone talked in a low voice, and even the tent-pegs were painstakingly screwed into the turf, not hammered. Quant remarked:
‘When ants swarm,
Not the least sound is heard
And each knows his own task.’
His sister lived in the Old Town. ‘It’s a monogamous quarter,’ he said, ‘though the wives there have a habit of exchanging husbands once in a while, which makes the atmosphere less severe than at Zapmor. Her name’s now Broad Thumb, I don’t know why. I’ve never seen her since the incident with the mallet, but I’ve been told that she lives somewhere up this street.’
We soon saw her house sign, and went into the kitchen without knocking; nobody knocked in New Crete, except on bedroom doors. I should have recognized Broad Thumb at once by her close resemblance to Quant: the same apple-red cheeks, sharp nose and humorous mouth. After the formal greeting she took her brother by the hand: ‘What is your nickname and your village?’ she asked.
‘I’m Quant, a recorder from Horned Lamb, down the railway line. And this is my friend Venn-Thomas, a poet from the past.’
‘I’m happy to make your acquaintance,’ she said. ‘They tell me that before I died, I too spent some years at Horned Lamb, among the tulips and croquet hoops. But where’s the friend you mention?’
When I wiped off the look-away symbol, she acknowledged my existence with a curtsy. I bowed in return.
‘Come into the spinning-room, if you please!’ she said.
‘I hear that you’ve been blessed with a lovely daughter,’ Quant remarked as we followed her.
‘Yes, Mari be praised!’ said Broad Thumb, sitting down at her spinning-wheel and working away at a tangle of black wool. ‘She’s a beautiful girl, born after breakfast this morning and calls me “Mother” already. By the evening she’ll be quite grown up: but as yet the little creature finds life strange enough.
‘What’s her nickname?’
‘I’m waiting for one, but so far without success.’
‘Why not call her Stormbird?’ I asked.
She pretended not to hear.
I repeated the question in a louder voice.
‘A poet has the right to bestow a nickname,’ she said, ‘but haven’t you one of better omen?’
‘The Goddess put it into my mind,’ I explained. ‘And, after all, storm-birds ride out the worst gales that blow.’
‘I accept it,’ she said resignedly.
‘Can we see her?’
‘The poor creature’s not very presentable, but if you insist…’
She led us into the next room where Sapphire sat in a playpen, pulling a doll to pieces. She was dressed in a loose white nightgown with her hair down and a daisy chain round her neck. ‘Nice men,’ she murmured, giving us a vague Ophelia-like smile. Then she held out her hand. ‘Got a blister – two blisters!’ she said proudly.
Quant cooed at her, produced a straw-box full of aniseed balls from his coat pocket, and exchanged it with her for the broken doll. She opened it awkwardly and then began to roll the sweets round and round in the lid.
‘Eat them, they’re very good!’ Quant said, and presently she tried one with the tip of her tongue.
‘Yes, good, very good!’ she echoed, and crammed a handful into her mouth. ‘Nice men,’ she said again, dribbling sugar down her chin.
When she threatened to paw me with her sticky hands, I turned away in disgust. She lisped, smiling coyly: ‘Would you like to see my frilly drawers?’
‘I think you’d better leave her now,’ said Broad Thumb. ‘She’s growing up rather faster than I expected, and she’s so large and well-formed that she might easily get into mischief if I don’t keep her quiet. Yes, I think she’ll be ready for her initiation by noon.’
So we said goodbye. As we went out, I asked Quant: ‘This is only a game, isn’t it? Sapphire – I mean Stormbird – does really recognize me, doesn’t she?’
‘Heavens, no! She doesn’t know in the least who you are, any more than Broad Thumb knows who I am. Dead’s dead, and reborn is reborn. That’s the whole point of the Robnet story. He died as a poet and became Fand’s servant, but he had no idea that he had once loved her. That he became her servant was a tragic coincidence – no more. If you’re thinking of changing your estate and becoming Stormbird’s lover, you’d better think twice; it’s most unlikely that you’ll pair up again.’
‘Then Sally’s got the better of me, after all?’ I exclaimed weakly.
‘It’s useless to oppose a witch.’
With Sapphire snatched from me in this absurd and horrible way, I felt completely stranded; what was worse, it looked as if Sally had taken possession of me and would never leave go now. I tried not to let Quant see how hard I had been hit. He felt Sapphire’s loss keenly enough himself, I knew, but he had the solace of his religion: he could invoke the Goddess and attain a peace of mind that was quite beyond my power. Where could I turn for solace? The Goddess was strange to me; though I gave her de facto recognition, I did not carry her in my heart wherever I went, as the New Cretans did. I had not even been initiated into my estate – though enjoying its privileges – and I was not at all sure that I wanted to be; my status was as honorary as that of a minor royal personage who has been awarded a Doctorate of Civil Law at a foreign university. My sense of frustration gave way momentarily to blinding anger. I would win Sapphire back, by fair means or foul, even if I had to pull the whole place to pieces in the attempt.
Seven Days in New Crete Page 23