The Corn King and the Spring Queen

by Naomi Mitchison

  Gyridas was making a rush plait. It was rather terrible. That was the only thing he had cared to do since he had been brought back. He looked well enough and answered when he was spoken to, but unless he was definitely told to do something else—and there were times when he had to be told two or three times before he seemed to hear—the only thing he wanted to do was to make elaborate rush plaits and knots. The woman at the farm had taught him. When they were finished he gave them to Klint, who left them about or undid them or used them to play horses with Ankhet’s little girl. When the two children were playing, Gyridas used to stand watching them or following them about. Once or twice they tried to get him to join in, but he couldn’t play properly, so after that they ignored him.

  Klint-Tisamenos was already completely bilingual, and had now, in two days, picked up a good many Egyptian words. He liked being called by his Greek name here, and had escaped out of the house at least three times and been retrieved, talking to amused people in the street. He had begun bothering Hyperides and his father to take him to see the lighthouse, which the little girl had told him about. They made him keep quiet in the big room, and so he did, although by now he was quite used to that sleeping lady, whom they said was his mother, and not a bit afraid of her.

  Tarrik was kneeling beside her, watching her face. Even still, it was horribly frightening that she breathed so rarely; he had tried to time his breathing with hers, but could not do it. He felt it stiflingly hot in the room, even with all curtains drawn and the floor sprinkled with water every half-hour. The smell of the paints bothered him too, but there was no stopping Berris. Berris would not cover the statue, either. And it was terrible, though in a way very beautiful. But it seemed larger than the room, so that there was no place for both it and several living people there; it seemed to be forcing every one out. Tarrik wore a Greek tunic, the finest linen Ankhet could get, but it was belted with the gold belt of linked fishes which Berris had made once. Round his neck he was wearing a curious jewel of gold and red enamel which one of his metal-workers had made for him. It was based on corn ears and a springing or dancing beast, some kind of tiger or wild cat. It made Berris suddenly want to try his hand again on metal-work; he could not allow some unknown man in Marob to do as well as that without doing better himself!

  Tarrik called out sharply, and the others all looked up and dropped what they were doing, except Gyridas, who went on plaiting rushes in his corner, talking rapidly to himself under his breath, as he usually did now. ‘What is it?’ said Sphaeros.

  ‘She took two breaths quickly,’ Tarrik said. Disdallis came over and looked at her intently, passing a hand once or twice near to and in front of her shut eyes. Again Erif Der breathed, and there seemed to be a faint creeping of colour into her pale cheeks. When she saw that, Disdallis went to the head of the stairs and called Ankhet, asking her, in bad Greek, to bring Tisamenos up with her.

  Disdallis was wearing a green and cream-coloured linen dress and no coat; her knife, too, had green shark-skin round the hilt. When she had heard that the Chief had become so certain of Marob and himself that he was going to bring Erif back and make her certain too, Disdallis had gone to him and said she must come with him. It was possible that they might have to bring Erif back against her will or out of enchantments; if so, he would need her. Tarrik had agreed and taken her with him, leaving Kotka and Linit to carry on his powers; but he had gone after Plowing Eve and meant to be back before midsummer. Linit’s next child would be born by then, and while he was away she should choose herself a husband from the best of Marob, who would know that she was a well-ploughed and sun-blessed field, and honour her for it.

  Disdallis had been very sick on the voyage, and found Alexandria a most alarming place, but she liked Ankhet. They had not been able to discover at once where Erif and Berris were. There had been formalities to go through, and the whole place was disturbed. Tarrik had asked for King Kleomenes and the Spartans, which, in the circumstances, had been the worst possible thing to do, so he and Hyperides had been put through a long cross-examination. The police had done their best to bully him into bribing them heavily, but by that time the King of Marob was rather angry and suddenly decided to be forceful himself. Even so, they were delayed a good deal and then they found the Spring Queen—as they did find her. Disdallis thought it was as well she had come with the men. She consulted Ankhet and went with her to see the snake. It certainly appeared to her that the snake had turned its head towards her and flickered its tongue. At any rate, she was fairly satisfied. And the wooden star on Tarrik’s chest burnt and quivered.

  Ankhet came up, bringing Klint-Tisamenos, rather cross at having been disturbed in the middle of a game and looking ridiculously like Tarrik. Berris cut himself and swore; he had nearly finished shaving. Hyperides and Sphaeros both came nearer. Hyperides had been very nice to the old man, and listened to him expounding Stoic doctrine without making anything but respectful and friendly comments. Already Sphaeros was more like himself, more pulled together, more able to smile and tell little stories with an obscure philosophical joke at the end; Hyperides had laughed and told Tarrik he was going to set up as a doctor. Now the two of them stood at Erif’s feet and watched. ‘Perhaps,’ said Hyperides suddenly, ‘there may be a force of some kind in all of us believing that she will wake. It might be worth trying, Sphaeros.’ ‘Yes,’ said Sphaeros, ‘it might become real. A very dear woman, Hyperides.’ And Hyperides thought how little her face had changed in the four years since he had seen her last. The thing which definitely had changed was his point of view towards her and Tarrik. He had not wanted then to be in any way instrumental in giving her back to her husband. Now he wanted more than anything to see them together.

  A perceptible tremor came into Erif’s hands; it spread upwards to her body. Her breathing became irregular and quick. Berris said: ‘Who should she see first?’ and mopped the cut on his chin with a painting rag. Disdallis and Ankhet glanced at one another, and then Disdallis said firmly: ‘Klint.’ Tarrik agreed. ‘Klint,’ he said, ‘you are to stand by your mother’s head—here, this side. Understand?’ Klint frowned, not much liking the idea. However, he went there and stood with his feet apart and hands behind his back. The others stood round, all except Gyridas. ‘Quiet!’ said Ankhet, ‘it is coming back.’

  Now tides of crimson began to flood over Erif’s face and neck; the trembling became more violent and then ceased. She breathed short and hard; her eyelids twitched and so did her mouth. There were moments when she was almost smiling, moments when it looked as though she were playing with them, frightening them and trying not to laugh herself. She seemed to round out, to look younger, and at the same time as though she had been through some solid physical exertion, for there were small beads of sweat on her neck and temples. She gasped and opened her mouth as though she were trying to speak, and every one leaned forward, eager to catch what she should say, except Klint, and he tautened and braced himself like someone in front of a big wave. He managed not to say anything, but he turned his head towards his father, and Tarrik put a hand on his shoulder, thinking suddenly how young he was after all.

  Then Erif Der laughed low to herself like a bride laughing in her sleep at some delicious dream, induced by some yet more delicious touch. She laughed louder, as though it were irresistible: as the actor in the Corn Play must laugh when he wakes again after Death and Winter. Then she was still, but her eyelids flickered and came half open and then fully open. She yawned and began to stretch as a cat stretches, rippling every separate muscle and joint of toes and fingers, feet and hands, legs and arms; her body arched and relaxed; she breathed deep. She looked at solemn Klint and said: ‘I suppose it’s very silly of me, but I can’t help thinking you’re my baby.’ Klint said, wonderfully steadily: ‘You’re my mother. I’m Klint-Tisamenos. I’m not a baby. Good morning, mother.’ And he stooped and pecked at her nose with a small, funny kiss. She shut her eyes and then opened them again, as though to verify these curious phenomena. She s
aid, mostly to herself: ‘That seems to be a kataleptike phantasia.’ Then she turned her head a little, and she was looking at Tarrik. It seemed to be a completely satisfying look between the two of them. As he moved, she swung herself up from the hips, her breasts and mouth towards him. Hyperides said to Berris: ‘The Spring Queen appears to be saved too, but I’d give my ears to know just how it has happened!’

  ‘She’s changing,’ said Berris. ‘Hyperides, she’s changing every moment. It’s all dropping off her.’

  ‘What is?’ whispered Hyperides.

  And Berris jerked his thumb back over his shoulder at the statue of Death and Philylla.

  Then Gyridas came out of his corner and the rush plait dropped from his hand. He plucked shyly at Sphaeros and whispered: ‘Did you see?’

  ‘What?’ said Sphaeros, looking at him a little vaguely.

  ‘The snake!’ said Gyridas, ‘the great coloured snake. It came into the room and touched me. I think it was wearing a crown. But it was a real snake, Sphaeros; it felt real. Then it went to her. I would like it if she touched me as the snake did.’ He was speaking louder now and had come forward, looking up at Erif.

  She walked a step out of Tarrik’s arms. She took the boy’s right hand in hers and laid her left hand on his head. ‘You’re a Spartan, Gyridas,’ she said, ‘one of the rest of them. Take heart, Gyridas, stand up, look up, you are becoming one of the men who can stare the world in the eyes!’

  As she said it, Gyridas did stand straighter, and stretched and smiled and seemed to be trying to adapt himself. He had a look of his father that none of them had seen before. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes! That was what I thought the snake said to me! I’m to be one of them for always. I’m going back to Sparta. Sphaeros!’ He turned suddenly on the old man. ‘My father killed one of the ephors at the beginning of the New Times. When the next New Times come, I shall take heart, I shall break the laws too!’

  Disdallis whispered to Hyperides: ‘Do you remember seeing this happen before?’ ‘You mean to your husband, by Tarrik, after his coming back?’ ‘Yes,’ said the witch, laughing quietly in her throat. ‘Poor Hyperides, you’ve got to believe it again!’

  Klint-Tisamenos said to Gyridas: ‘I saw a snake too. What snake was it? I don’t like snakes—there aren’t any at home.’

  Gyridas said: ‘I think it was the snake that guarded my King Kleomenes. I don’t see what other snake it could have been.’

  ‘Hyperides said that was silly and I wasn’t to bother about it,’ observed the smaller child, ‘but this was a real snake. It went past me. I wonder where it’s gone.’

  No one said anything at once, then Hyperides asked: ‘Did anyone else see the snake?’

  Disdallis said: ‘I thought I heard something coming along the floor.’ But she was the only one.

  Erif said: ‘I can’t quite remember about this snake. I think I’ve been asleep for a long time, and now everything is rather different. I half remember a snake. It hung in the sun, didn’t it—somewhere?’

  ‘On the pine stake. Over King Kleomenes.’ It was Gyridas who answered her.

  ‘Yes, and there were people all round making a noise, but the snake didn’t understand what they said. It was afraid of them; it was glad when the night came, and they went, and the sun went. Poor snake, it was tired of coiling so tight. It was afraid of the smell of all those people and afraid of the great birds that swooped, and still more it was afraid of the thing underneath it. But it had to go on. For the sake of—of what? Who told me about the snake?’ She looked all round her, frowning and puzzled. Then she said: ‘Tarrik, you know King Kleomenes is dead? I can’t remember how much you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tarrik, ‘I knew. He killed himself for his honour and for Sparta.’

  Gyridas said: ‘He died for Sparta. He died for the people.’

  ‘But he did not save the people,’ said Sphaeros with a deep sigh.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gyridas said. ‘He must have died and saved something—mustn’t he?’

  Nobody answered him, but Berris said: ‘Kings don’t always save their own people. Not at once anyway. By the way, Hyperides, you notice that the oracle has been fulfilled?’

  ‘In some respects,’ said Hyperides, ‘but I never denied that coincidences do occur! If it has, Apollo presumably knows what people Kleomenes died for.’

  He and Berris and Tarrik were all standing together now. Erif sat on the couch, still dazed and smiling, and her son, who seemed to have decided that he rather liked her, sat beside her dangling his brown legs. Tarrik said: ‘My Spring Queen has been given back to me. Also, I did not have to die myself, though I thought, when she went away, that I would most likely have to. Because death had been brought into the seasons. Perhaps Kleomenes of Sparta has died for Marob.’

  ‘It is as the boy said,’ Hyperides answered him. ‘One doesn’t know. Possibly it may become clearer in time. In the meanwhile the great thing is to preserve an attitude of scepticism.’

  For a time none of them spoke. Erif had got Klint to come and sit on her knee; she was asking him questions and at the same time stroking her chin with extraordinary pleasure against the tips of his golden-brown curls. Berris said: ‘I wonder whether she has quite forgotten Philylla.’ And his face stayed for a time old and strained and bitter among the happiness of the others. For even Sphaeros was glad, because of what had happened to Gyridas. Berris had been glad to see his friends—very glad to see Tarrik—and for a time relief at his sister’s return had filled him completely. But now again he was becoming blackly absorbed in the pointlessness of life.

  For four days he had been at work almost solidly, exhausting himself of all other feelings. Or not, perhaps, even going through such a human process as that. Because feelings did not belong to what he was doing. While he was at work he had become again the little man on the vase, not happy, not hoping or loving, but in some odd way content and apart and observant. Now the other side of him asserted itself. He could see nothing but the terrible plain fact that Philylla whom he had loved for seven years was dead. Seven years of his life had been more or less steeped in the consciousness of her presence, near or far. Now they were wiped out, wasted; he could not think of them any longer. Reality and beauty had been taken out of past and present, and the substitute was this dull, hopeless pain; he saw nothing else in the future. Berris Der looked at the world and found it evil, and promised himself to return its evil with evil of his own. He looked at his statue and got some momentary satisfaction; that was a slap on the mouth for the kind and hopeful people who thought everything must come right in the end if only one waited patiently! He had made a portrait of what there really was at the end. But did anyone seriously hope? Yes, probably always the quite young. And the saved. He would have to make something worse before he could get at them. He would, some day. Once, a very short time ago, Berris Der had been innocent—not hurting, not wanting to hurt. Now he knew the innocence had dropped off him. He did want to hurt.

  He went to his pictures and turned them over, so that they faced out into the room. Two of them were quite finished. Tarrik came and looked with him; he had not done that satisfactorily before, because he had been so preoccupied about Erif. Now, for a time, he could leave her with the child.

  The first picture was of the feast at the prison, the last eating together. Berris had made the two helot servants tell him about it, and he had kept more or less to the grouping, though he altered the room so as to get three windows across the back of his picture. The King was in the centre, with Panteus beside him, leaning against his breast. Berris had made Panteus look rather young, more as he had seen him in Sparta at the end of the first year, when he had wrestled with the King in the open field, the boys of his class watching. That picture was grave and balanced; the fringed Egyptian cloaks drooped heavily off the pale bodies of the King and the twelve Spartiates, in rich and sombre colours touched with gold and only lightened where the three windows threw a curtained shining down on to them. T
here was food on the tables, picking up the same colours. The Spartans drank wine and broke bread with curious fixed gestures which pleased Berris now, looking at them.

  The second was a much smaller picture, less grave and static, and in a different range of colours. Hippitas riding on the colt, with the others round him waving swords and shouting, and the crowd behind them at each side shouting too and waving branches and coloured cloths. The one short moment of triumph before the end, yet too violently tensed to have any possible duration. The tension was expressed in a squareness and angularity of muscle and movement, and even in a sky strip heavily and threateningly blue between white houses.

  The third was the picture of the death of the men, with Panteus fallen over Kleomenes. Berris had felt suddenly uncertain while he was doing it, and so only those figures were finished. The others were all sketched in, with crossed and twisted arms and legs, sometimes a foot or an elbow jutting into the foreground and meticulously drawn. Behind, sketched roughly, were the wooden skeletons of the market booths.

  The next he turned over was the squared charcoal drawing of the death of the children. It had been the hardest to do, and had been fidgeting him with its problems and implications even while he had been tackling the other three. The women were mourning over the dead eldest son, the boy Nikomedes, one older woman and one younger, Kratesikleia and Philylla. It was a curious parallel to one of his earlier pictures of the mother and grandmother mourning over the hanged King Agis, who had been only so few years older than Nikomedes. The figures of the women were beautiful, and the head of the old Queen was finished in exquisite and painful wrinkles, but he had not yet faced making that final portrait of Philylla. He had tried; his hand and mind had been willing; but some part of him had shuddered away and spoilt his craftsmanship. So far he had not been able to regard her too as so much material for his work—less now than when she had been alive. He turned that one back quickly with its face to the wall.