by Brian Aldiss
‘How are we to water our fields?’ called a man wrapped in a sheep’s hide. ‘That’s what I want to know.’
Other voices shouted that there was death in their pastures also, and in their patches of garden, and in every place where once things used to grow green. And when the shouts of complaint died, an older man spoke, in a voice creaking like a cartwheel. ‘There is death also in the wombs of women. My poor wife bore forth a dead child, a daughter, last week, and is ill of its contagion even now.’
In the silence following this statement, a young man said, ‘The birds did not build their nests this year.’
Beside him, an old bowed woman responded. ‘It’s what you young fellows get up to – that’s what’s caused all this. You don’t control yourselves.’
‘The ordinary business of mortal life has become confounded,’ said an old one, shaking his shaggy head. ‘The Furies laugh at us.’
The youthful speaker who had begun this litany now spoke again. ‘We look to King Oedipus to save us. He is at the shrine of Apollo even now. Tomorrow he will return and we may expect a change for the better. But if better does not come, what then shall we do?’
‘Young Pylades lies sick with a mortal and malodorous fever,’ cried one townswoman.
A husky older man then spoke up. ‘We shall survive this ill season. I am old enough to recall the gloom that fell upon us once before, when King Laius was exiled from the city. We have all heard tell how robbers set upon him and slayed him by Triodos, in Phocis, where three ancient roads meet.
‘That was the bad time, when a sphinx, that vile creature from the past, ravaged our lands. Was it not then Oedipus who answered its riddle and thus preserved Thebes?’
‘We can rely on Oedipus to save us again.’
‘Not while the sun and moon are at odds,’ said the old one who had previously spoken.
All this while, Creon watched from his lonely tower, listening to what was said. At this stage in his life he was frequently silent.
Semele had also listened to the speeches, crouching behind a side door of the palace, nattering to herself, showing her teeth.
‘We don’t want those monkeys gathering, making things out to be worse than they really are,’ she said to the griffin accompanying her. She clutched him by his mane to keep him quiet. ‘There’s a way we can make them run, and no mistake. The Sphinx will see them off.’
She climbed on her ugly pet’s back. She weighed nothing. Holding on to the creature’s ears to guide him, she rode him into the inner recesses of the courtyard. The griffin started to growl.
The old woman climbed from his back and approached the cage wherein the Sphinx was confined. Seeing her coming, the Sphinx rushed to the cage door.
‘By the great oval owl eggs of the outer lands, Grandmother Semele, free me from this stinking cage.’
Semele gave her a cunning glance. ‘What if I do?’
‘I’ll not touch you. I’m broody, old lady, and have an egg to lay.’
‘What’s freedom worth, then? – Or you can lay your egg in the cage.’
The slave, also confined, called shrilly from the rear of the cage. The floor was strewn with cracked deer bones and excrement, over which the slave ventured a step forward. ‘Fair lady Semele, please unlock the door of this cage. I can’t bear the Sphinx’s company any more. I shall die unless I can guess what is one yet is lost if it comes not two.’
‘Quiet, varlet, or I’ll have your tongue cut out. You shall do it yourself,’ promised Semele. Turning again to the Sphinx, she asked, ‘What reward if I set you free?’
‘Oh,’ squawked the great beast, ‘what makes hell so full of humans, and humans so hellish? Rewards, rewards! Very well, if you free me, I shall conjure up a little sprite with meaty organs, who will lie with you as no one else will …’
‘Ah! And what will this sprite do, since mere lying is not enough?’ Semele’s cunning little eyes were half-concealed under the complex straggle of her hair which, unwashed, sheltered several objects within it, such as twigs and beetles.
The Sphinx spread her wings and banged them against the bars of the cage. ‘This sprite I have in mind has the curious habit of licking between the legs of old ladies. He is young and bald, with red hinder parts.’
Semele let out an andante squeak. ‘Has he tits? And what exactly does he lick with?’
‘I ask the riddles here, old hag! The sprite licks with what one and all lick with – the tongue. What else? The tongue of this sprite is well known in the bordellos of hell for having a long but plump – decidedly plump – tongue with flesh hanging from it, very tickly.’
‘Oh, let’s not waste time then!’ Her little wizened hands trembled before her. ‘I like the sound of this sprite. I like the sound of its bad habits.’
The key to the cage hung from a hook nearby. Plucking it off the hook, Semele in her excitement dropped it. She groaned and clutched the small of her back as she picked it up. And then she shook so much she was unable to insert it in the lock. ‘Oh, oh, dear …’ she muttered. ‘We must drive away that smelly crowd outside the palace …’
‘Give me the key. I’ll unlock from here,’ ordered the Sphinx.
Extending her paw through the bars, she snatched the key from the dithering old witch. She inserted it deftly into the lock, turned it, wrenched open the door, and burst forth so fiercely that Semele barely had time to hop aside.
‘Oh, oh, now – the sprite, dear Sphinx! Send him to me. My thighs burn.’
The Sphinx crowed like a cockerel and lashed her tail. ‘No sprite for you, you old hag! You did not free me from that stinking cage. I freed myself.’
‘You lying foul deformed demonic phantom of a former age! Then go to the great door and frighten the plebeians festering there.’
‘I’m for egg-laying!’ said the monster, departing with a scatter of feathers and a shriek of triumph. ‘Frighten them yourself. You have but to show your behind or your face.’
‘Aaaargh!’ shrieked Semele, jumping up and down without allowing her flat feet to leave the ground. She turned to the slave still cowering in the cage.
‘You! I’ll free you! Down on your knees!’
She advanced towards the man, bow-legged, on pleasure bent.
5
So it fell out that when Oedipus’ party returned, weary and disillusioned, from Paralia Avidos and the sombre shrine of Apollo, a crowd of disgruntled citizens was waiting outside the palace.
The citizens hailed Oedipus’ arrival with shouts of acclaim which varied in degree from hope to despair to cynicism. He gave them a gesture of greeting, but did not stop to speak.
Jocasta was fatigued by the journey and tired of her bickering children. Going to her chamber, she divested herself of her clothes and ordered two handmaidens to bathe her. She sank voluptuously into her warm water pool. The faithful old Hezikiee disappeared to shake the dust from her voluminous skirts elsewhere.
Jocasta allowed Oedipus to enter her apartment, knowing the effect her generous nudity usually had on him. On this occasion, however, he remained unmoved.
‘I am determined to address that unhappy throng outside,’ he said. ‘It is my duty. I should like it if you accompanied me.’
‘What will you say? You have addressed them before. What can you say that is new? That in a vision you saw Thalia, not Apollo, and that Thalia told you to solve the riddle of your own personality? That would not hold great appeal for your starving subjects, would it? I’d say it would inflame them the more …’
‘Don’t mock me, my queen. Our dismal failure at the shrine has decided me. I will take matters into my own hands. I will lay a curse on the murderer of Laius. Those who go in search of the murderer shall be paid.’
‘No, my love!’ She gave a cry and, climbing from the pool, clung to him with her dripping body. ‘Never do that! Never! There have been enough curses. Do not bring more bloodshed, I pray you. Rest here happily with me. The malcontents will go away soon enough.’
Oedipus clutched her sturdy naked form, seeming to be swayed by her pleas. ‘It can do no harm, dearest. Let us resolve this mysterious blight, once and for all.’
‘No! The drought will break in time, as it must. Remain quiet and be happy with me.’
He looked intensely into her eyes. ‘Happy? Have I ever known what that empty word means?’
Jocasta kissed his cheek. ‘Oh, a curse can do a magnitude of harm, my Oedipus. More than you know. Do not act, I beg of you. Let inaction be the saviour of the day! Please, please. Stay with me, make love to me …’
He struggled to free himself from her embrace. Such was her tenacity that he could not escape. ‘By Hercules, woman, what possesses you? Let me go!’
Her plump body seemed to surround him, her plump arms held him tight. Her dark hair streamed about him, while in its dark tent her eyes gleamed. She pressed her open mouth to his lips. She forgot her pledge to be chaste.
‘We possess each other. Do you wish to lose that gift? Stay here. Come dusk, the throng will disperse quietly enough. Make them no rash promises. Drink wine with me, ravish me, do nothing outside these four walls.’
Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be persuaded by her eloquence. Lying against her damp and steaming body, he raised her right arm and buried his face in the fur of her armpit.
As he penetrated her, she said in a sigh, ‘I have no reality but through you …’
So for a while longer all was well with them. Later it would be seen that these were the good times.
It was next morning that Semele, prowling the palace before dawn with one of her pet griffins, found that the Sphinx had disappeared. She crept into the den where her two grandsons, Eteocles and Polynices, lay clasped together, sleeping in each other’s arms.
‘Wake up, boys. That winged monster has gone. The omen is bad. Your papa will go mad when he finds out. You must search in town and round about to bring it back.’
‘For Apollo’s sake, Great-Grandmother!’ Eteocles protested. ‘It’s still dark!’
‘You old witch, you see in the dark, but you must have missed the Sphinx,’ said Polynices. ‘Go back to sleep and let us do the same.’
‘Lazy wretches. You’ve been playing with each other again. I can smell it. Get up and find the Sphinx.’
The boys rose, slipped into their robes, and set out for the street. Once there, they made for the tiropita stall, and passed a pleasant hour, eating, sipping lemon cordial, and exchanging jests with some country lads.
When they returned to the palace, it was to find the place in an uproar, with Oedipus shouting that the Sphinx must be found.
‘It is ordered that I keep the beast!’ he roared. ‘Without her I die.’
Jocasta stood with her back against a pillar, watching. She was accustomed by now to witnessing this wilder side of Oedipus’ character, which was liable to burst forth in time of trouble: accustomed to it, certainly, but still disconcerted by it. She turned away from his shouting.
Slaves scuttled here and there, some daring to snigger among themselves. Semele squatted in a corner of the inner court to watch the excitement. Irritated further by her grin, Oedipus went and glared down at her. ‘I suppose you know where the magic beast is hiding.’
The old woman raised her left arm and scratched her armpit with sharp nails.
‘She’s laying, isn’t she? So of course she has turned invisible to protect herself. I wish I had the art! Why get so worked up, sonny?’
‘I know the creature’s most likely to be invisible. We’re looking for swarms of flies. Where they cluster, there she’ll be – if they’re not on you!’
The palace had many rooms. Some had been huts, built long ago, but slowly incorporated without great thought into the main building. Jocasta investigated some of the more remote rooms without enthusiasm. Coming on one at the far end of a corridor, she pushed open its bronze door and went in, holding an oil lamp above her head.
The door slammed shut behind Jocasta. A brilliant light filled the room, almost blinding her. Through a mist she glimpsed a sombre old man, still as a statue. In confusion and apprehension, she regarded his high forehead, his white hair and beard; certainly he did not appear threatening. Wrapped in an unfashionable toga-type robe, he stood before her, holding a scroll. His blue eyes, coddled between heavy eyebrows above and fleshy bags beneath, were fixed steadily on the queen.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ she asked, not without a tremor in her voice.
Only then did he move, to give an appearance of life. ‘This verb “to do”, how brief it is, yet what a freight it bears …’
She perceived his response as unnecessarily complex. In what she thought as a deep meditative voice, the ancient claimed that he might ask her the identical question.
He asked what indeed was he doing in this place. Could he be said to be doing anything? And where was here? He was a victim of displacement. ‘But … why, I believe – no, it can’t be … Yes, you’re the queen who comes to a bad end. Jocasta, isn’t it?’
Was he speaking in her voice? She fumbled to find a latch on the door. There was no latch.
‘What do you mean, “comes to a bad end”? I have only to call a guard and you will come to a bad end yourself.’
‘I think not, madam. Since we are meeting, we have made this encounter in another probability sphere, out of time. Out of time, no one can hear your call. Besides, why call? I intend you no harm. It may be that you intend me harm.’
Jocasta decided to put the matter to the test. She called loudly. No answer. She beat on the door with her fists and called. No answer. She tried to open the door. It would not budge.
‘What trick is this?’ she asked. ‘Or am I having a siezure?’
The old man gave her a piercing look. She seemed to hear him say, ‘No one will come. Presumably if we are, as I suppose, in a separate probability sphere, then we are entirely alone, encased, as it were, in our own private abstract universe. If you stepped through that door you might well encounter – nothingness … We are at once here and not here, like a cat sealed in a box. But you need not be frightened. It might indeed be fruitful for you to regard our conversation as a monologue within yourself.’
A monologue? She could not understand the implications of that suggestion.
‘You don’t frighten me,’ she said, pressing a finger to her lower lip to stop it trembling. ‘What do you want, anyway?’
The elder explained that he had no wants, at least as far as this present probability sphere was concerned.
‘Could you stop saying “probability sphere”? It makes my tummy rumble.’
Ignoring this remark, the elder said that their meeting was of academic interest only. Indeed, he went on to say, in a half-humorous manner, it might well substantiate a claim made by his son that he was non compos mentis …
Jocasta, he claimed, was not a real person, but rather a character in a play he had written. To believe one had substance was subjectively almost the same as actually having substance. She lived a brief life on stage, but was otherwise a fiction.
‘What you are saying is meaningless to me.’
‘Nevertheless, I think you understand what it means to live a lie. Living a fiction is much the same.’
This statement, he said, was not at all insulting, for fiction represented another kind of life, a rich imaginative metaphorical life in which mankind itself invented the circumstances; it was therefore an improvement on real life, where people had to endure or do battle with the circumstances in which they found themselves. He said, in his casual rather grumbling way, that she must labour under no illusion about her unimportance in the plot.
‘What plot? What plot are you talking about?’ she enquired angrily. ‘Who are you anyway?’
The elder scrutinised her with his sharp blue eyes before replying with some formality. ‘I am called Sophocles of Athens. I am – or I was – or I shall be – famous. I enjoy the privilege of being the author of a drama in whic
h you are for the most part contained. I must tell you – without, I hope, undue immodesty – that my play has met with considerable success. So much so that it is still performed somewhere or other, in countries of which I have never heard, over two thousand years after my demise.’
‘You’re dead, are you?’ she said, with contempt. ‘That explains a lot. I am talking to a ghost and therefore am plainly having a hallucination. A fit of some kind.’
‘Ah, a monologue?’
‘You’re not like Aristarchus. Aristarchus was alive. He was real. This – this apparition, on the other hand, is all my strange old grandmother’s doing. She was born in another age. She must have conjured you up.’
But in her mind, she asked herself, forlornly, Is this my life? Am I living? I’m talking with the dead: then I must also be dead … So is death any worse than the terrors life inflicts? Neither death nor life makes much sense, when you look into the matter. Both are equally illogical. Is this not something of which that venerable Aristarchus told me – that my path through life might already be written? Was that what he said? I can’t think. I am about to be sick. This old man is not here. I am not here … Semele – she is a witch.
‘I suppose Semele’s in your play too?’
He answered with quiet dignity that Semele’s name did not feature in his play. He thanked her, adding that his play was not about the Bronze Age.
‘What age? What is this drama of yours about, then? Is Antigone in it? The Sphinx? What about Oedipus? Is he in it?’
‘Oh, he’s in it all right. In fact, the name of my play is Oedipus Rex, more properly Oedipus Tyrannus. It’s a tragedy. Its theme is that of predestination. No matter how humans struggle, it is destiny which shapes our endings.’
‘Oh, so it’s useless to struggle? We might as well be vegetables – onions, for instance. What a silly idea!’