by Brian Aldiss
Her bed creaked with the terror of her trembling.
The apparition stood over her. When it opened its mouth to speak, a disgusting odour filled the room.
‘Look upon thy brother, slain by his brother. The gods have wished ill upon our house, O Antigone! I beg you recall a happy time when we were young and could sport and bathe in the sea, knowing no harm. Yet harm has befallen us all.
‘Now you are full-grown, you must take on a woman’s role. You must be responsible as our mother was not responsible. Swear you will do that. Swear you will give my fallen body burial. Swear to me who am no more!’
In a faltering voice she begged him to go away, saying that she had dieted enough on distress.
‘I will not leave until you swear. The dawn brings my destruction. I am imprisoned here.’ So in his dream did the imprisoned Karimov find voice in the dead man’s words.
Shaking with fear, Antigone told the dead Polynices, ‘You are slaughtered, while I must still live out my natural life. There can be no communication between us. Leave me, I beg of you. Go, make peace with Eteocles, our brother.’
But the apparition would not leave until it had forced Antigone to swear that she would give his mangled corpse proper burial; otherwise, he was doomed for ever to wander the earth without rest.
This, from terror and pity, Antigone had sworn to do. Only then had the spectre receded into the stony darkness from which it had come, until there remained merely a stain hanging in the air. Antigone heard a cock crow. A neighbour in the street gave vent to a furious bout of coughing. Ordinary nature was reviving, bringing the sounds of the dark period – mice scuttling in the kitchen alcove, the shrill of a night bird, the call of a sentry on the ramparts of Thebes.
Putting on her wooden sandals, Antigone took up her onion hoe from its corner and went quietly into the night to do her dead brother’s bidding.
III
The whole tale of the ghost of Polynices and its visitation Antigone now related to her uncle Creon, who stood impassively amid the buzzing flies, gazing without expression into the branches of the oak under which they stood.
Towards the end of her account, Antigone faltered somewhat, disconcerted by Creon’s immobility. When she had finished, he turned a stern regard on her.
‘You know there are no gods? They belong to an earlier, more ignorant age?’
She said that she was unsure.
‘What do you imagine lies beyond death?’
Again she said she was unsure. She imagined that Hades lay beyond death.
‘Nothing lies beyond death. There is only emptiness. Emptiness and cold. And silence, eternal silence. You understand?’
‘I don’t know, Uncle.’
‘I know. And therefore Polynices could not have spoken to you. It’s impossible. You simply had a bad dream.’
After a tiny silence, she said that she knew well what she had experienced.
Creon continued his catechism.
‘You understand that I, as king, make the law?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I know that.’ She gazed up at his face, but could read nothing there.
‘So, Antigone, you think Polynices appeared from the realms of the dead to lay a task – an illegal task – upon you. Did this phantom of yours happen to report that there was mirth in that dark kingdom from which he came?’
‘He made no mention of it.’
A frown creased Creon’s heavy countenance. ‘Nor is there mirth here in Thebes. Mourning there is. Every family lost someone and will grieve for ever for it.
‘For this reason, we have military law. I want no more civil disturbance. I have given an edict saying that your brother’s corpse will not be buried, but will be left here to rot. This is a necessary warning to all traitors, or to those who plot dissension among us. It is for this reason that Polynices lies and stinks.’
She summoned contempt. ‘For this reason indeed! Your reason is merely spite! Polynices defied you. That’s what you could not stomach. That’s why you passed this cruel and demeaning law – and for no other reason.’
Creon was unmoved. ‘For whatever reason, the law stands and must be obeyed. Those who break the law will be executed. Now – be reasonable, niece. You never believed in ghosts as a child.’
‘I do now.’
‘Ghosts are nonsense. They belong to the past. Now we live by human laws. Once you’re dead, you cease entirely. Your body begins to decay, and horrible things grow from it, and that’s all …’
‘I experienced what I experienced in the night just past.’
He turned his massive head away from her. ‘Don’t argue with me, girl. Don’t be stubborn. You experienced nothing. You imagined everything. It was the bad dream of your wish. We are all beset by bad dreams, and must ignore them for the sake of reason. They are part of the inclement inheritance the gods have wished upon us, as they wished his terrible fate on Oedipus, your father. The gods were but cruel guttersnipes who, using us as flies for their amusement, tore off our wings …’
‘So you have invented your own cruel laws …’
Creon sighed. ‘My law is just. We wish no further cause for war. The dishonoured must remain dishonoured. I will do nothing to encourage further insurrection. But you – by your own free choice you have broken the law and stand now in the shadow of the executioner. How say you to that, niece? How readily do you embrace the thought of your head being severed from that slender body which Haemon so hotly desires?’
She hung her head, saying in a small voice, but determinedly, ‘You are king, Uncle. I am merely your subject. You will do as you will.’
A growl issued from low in Creon’s throat. He walked back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back as if he were a manacled prisoner.
‘As yet, you and I alone know that you have broken the law.’
She made no reply, continuing to regard the ground at her feet.
He went on. ‘We will keep your transgression a secret. Behave yourself from now onwards. Raise yourself – you have a good ancestry, despite the incest of your mother. Forget all about ghosts. Marry my son Haemon. Strive to be content. Although Haemon is my flesh and blood, I will say he is a good fellow, not clever perhaps, but virtuous, and much in love with you. But there must be no more disobedience from you. You are as subject to the law as any other citizen.’
Still Antigone made no response, merely standing there forlornly, while the dappled shade played about her.
Creon grunted with anger. ‘Haemon will rule over Thebes after me. You should be his queen, you understand? Answer me, confound you.’
To herself, she who still held in memory the love her father held for her, she thought to challenge Creon by asking, What if I have no particular affection for Haemon? But she had not courage or folly enough to put the question to her uncle.
Moistening her lips, she asked if they might leave the vicinity of the rotting body. Polynices now resembled his father in having no eyes.
Without further words, Creon led Antigone through a grove of acacias to a well. Women were gathering there, pitchers on their heads. There they liked to gossip. Creon drove them all away. The women feared him and his harsh reputation; they were not slow to move. Creon and Antigone were soon alone by the well, under the shade of the acacias.
The king folded his arms and regarded Antigone. She met his gaze. A butterfly alighted on his tunic. He beat it off with a heavy hand.
She ventured to ask if there was not a law above the law of men.
He regarded her in silence, before saying, ‘You have not got much of a figure. Your breasts never developed properly. It was all that wandering about with your father which did it. But your face is pleasant. I always thought it so. Once we get you out of the sun those freckles will disappear.’
She stared impudently at him by way of reply.
‘We can talk freely here, though what I have to say will hardly please you,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘Mark well what I tell you, or this could be the last
conversation we ever enjoy – unless, of course, we meet after death as two of your ghosts.’
‘Uncle Creon, I like Haemon very well. I have no wish to displease him or you.’
He fixed her with a dark gaze. ‘You have displeased me. You broke the law that was passed, the law stating that Polynices’ remains were not to be buried. You attempted to bury what should have been left for the dogs. By rights I should have you executed.’
‘It is a cruel and unjust law. It goes against the moral law.’
He struck fist against palm. ‘The times themselves are cruel. I must meet them with cruelty. Hadn’t you the sense to see that this defiant act of yours would put me in a difficult position?’
Now that they had left the proximity of the corpse, dogs were sneaking back to the feast. A snarling quarrel broke out among them. They jumped back and forth over the corpse, snapping at each other.
She shivered, saying, ‘Humans are in such disharmony. It breeds disharmony even among the dogs.’
One of the Theban women, in her hasty retreat, had left a pitcher filled with water standing on the parapet enclosing the well. Taking up the pitcher, Creon began slowly to pour the water down into the recesses of the well’s mouth. The circle of liquid below took the libation into its throat with ichorous gulps.
‘In death, thus will our souls flow back into the waiting earth, never to rise again … I see no harmony in that dark draught, only an irrevocable decree. Antigone, I tell you this, and then you will understand my concern for you. A guard came to me at dawn, a man I have long known. He was all aghast, having seen you, as he reported, scrabbling soil and muck over what’s left of Polynices, in your attempt to bury him.
‘I have blood enough on my hands already, niece. It was nothing for me to kill the man there and then, to silence him for ever.’
As he spoke, his face became distorted with hate. He hurled the emptied pitcher into the well. He showed Antigone his hands, spreading them out before her gaze.
‘So – only you and I among the living know of your disobedience, Antigone. I have saved you from death this once. In future, stay in your bed at night. I shall double the guard on the gate tonight.
‘Do you understand? I protect you for my son Haemon’s sake. If you disobey the law once more …’ He concluded his sentence by a fierce chopping movement downwards with his open hand.
Shrinking in disgust from him, Antigone managed to say in a small voice, ‘So murder is a part of your law! What a law! Law without justice … It runs against the law of the gods, if not humanity … I must bury my poor brother, Uncle. That’s my law.’
His teeth gleamed through his beard. His eyes almost closed. ‘You little fool, this is men’s business, not yours. Your woman’s business is to marry Haemon and bear him sons. Be warned. I shall not spare you a second time!’
He turned his back, to march away along the path through parched grass towards the great wooden gates of the city.
Antigone watched his broad shoulders, moving so strongly, and in that moment, standing by the well, she saw the whole of life and the way it must go.
She consoled herself, as she huddled in bed that night, by saying she had stood firm at the moment of decision, as her beloved mother had failed to do. Finally she slept.
To her horror, the shade of Polynices came again. It approached, making the same dreary progress as previously, as if it forced its way through stone. Against its generally grey appearance was set the scarlet of its wounds. That swollen mouth again moved as the shade spoke of its need for burial. Once more the foul odour filled her room.
Behind Polynices, other warriors could be glimpsed. Antigone could see them only dimly; perhaps they numbered as many as six. Their main feature was the glint of their armour. Sometimes they flickered and faded, eclipsed by the miasmas of death. Sometimes their eyes glittered like beached fish. Their hangdog expressions seemed to say, No happiness is to be found in life, only duty and discipline.
It was of duty that the shade of Polynices spoke. ‘It is your responsibility, Sister Antigone, to ensure that I am given proper burial. Only you and the sad Ismene of our family remain alive. This is the second time of asking.’
The words came booming to her ear. She flung her rug aside to sit up on the hard bed. She had not forgotten her uncle’s words, for they had followed her into sleep. She said, ‘Please leave me, Brother. You are just a dream. This business is not mine. It is men’s business. Supplicate Creon, not me. Now that you are dead, there is no more traffic between us. I am to marry Haemon within the month.’
To which the grisly shade gave answer. ‘If you desire to free yourself of me, you must ensure that my corpse has proper burial.’
He raised his sword threateningly. It seemed immensely heavy and steamed like a boiling pot.
‘Farewell!’ said the shade.
His pallid face hung in the dark alone before it also faded. All that remained was a stain and a stink.
Antigone remained unmoving on the bed, clutching her toes and shuddering. She heard dogs outside, nervously moving towards a fight. The natural world was reviving. Its ordinary sounds broke into her reverie. A pigeon gave its repetitive call.
When she felt able to move her limbs, she slipped on sandals, took up her hoe and crept out into the dark streets. The pavements under her feet were cracked and broken. Little had been repaired since her brothers disputed the city.
It was the dark hour just before dawn, when pale moths were a-flutter. Beyond the city gates, a light mist clung to the ground. A sudden wild scampering made her start, as the fierce dogs and foxes who had been greedying it over Polynices’ fallen body galloped away for refuge. She stood trembling, looking about her in apprehension. Did she see the figure of a guard or was that a bush? It did not move. She took heart and advanced towards the stinking body. From under Polynices’ hollowed ribcage, ravens battered their way into the heart of a nearby oak. A rat rushed off into the dense undergrowth.
Reproaching herself for cowardice, she came to the corpse. Tears sprang to her eyes as she looked down in pity on the ruin of her brother.
On the previous night, she had laboured to dig a grave. The ground was dry and hard. Working with her cracked hoe, she had managed only a shallow depression. Into the depression she had dragged Polynices, and sprinkled soil over him. It was insufficient. At first light, the dogs, taking a foot between their jaws, had dragged the dead warrior from his grave.
She stood there, supported by her hoe, enduring the stench, not knowing what best to do.
IV
It was as Antigone stood indecisively by the broken ground that Jon Rahman Karimov broke into his own dream of her. He confronted her, unspeaking at first. She did not move. He did not move. In the deep deluding dusk, in the leafy shadows, at the tail end of the bosky Boeotian night, they stood facing one another.
Raising her hoe, ready to strike if necessary, she asked him if he was a sentry or an apparition.
Karimov’s startlement was as great as hers. He was unable to speak at first, so that they held the tableau, neither moving, totally unseen, amid moths – in a silent interlude between waking and dream.
Karimov found hesitant voice.
‘Antigone, I am your friend. More than a friend. You – you are a part of me. You are my anima and I am dreaming you. Perhaps I am dreaming myself. Once, I brought you to life on my stage, when—’
She rushed at him. Swinging the hoe above her head, she sought to cleave his skull open. He jumped to one side. As the hoe sliced by, he seized her thin wiry arms. He pressed them against her body, twisting her about, and held her so tightly that she dropped her weapon. He had her locked with her back against his chest.
‘Hush, you little tigress! I wish to help you. I need to help you – I can help you. When morning comes, I shall be taken from my prison cell and executed. Then you will die in me. You see, your tale is familiar – well known. You are the subject of a great drama.’
Into Antigone’s min
d, unbidden, came a memory of her mother’s obsessive fear, a product of guilt, that she was simply a character in a play.
She began to struggle, kicking the man’s shins. ‘Let me go or I’ll call and waken the sentries!’
‘Keep still,’ he told her. ‘Call a sentry and Creon will have you killed in a very unpleasant way. If I can save you—’
‘You’re a madman!’ But she ceased struggling.
He let go of her, taking the precaution to throw her hoe with its band of ribbon a distance away. ‘I’m not mad. I will help you do what is needful for your brother. I will drag his body into the woods and burn it honourably on a funeral pyre. If you will allow me.’
‘Why should you do this, when every man else is against me?’
He did not bother to answer the question. He told her urgently to go back into the city. To enter the palace and go to Haemon’s bed, there to sleep with Haemon. ‘The suspicious Creon will be deceived. He will conclude that you were in his son’s bed all night. You’ll be safe. Haemon won’t give you away. He loves you, doesn’t he?’
She stared through the dimness at his face. ‘I mean to retain my virginity until my marriage day. Else I am worthless. But you are a riddle …’
‘A riddle? Like life itself! Do we live our lives or are we lived? Are our lives in some mysterious way not our own? A book I’m trying to read … Well, a man of our age, Sigmund Freud, he identified his daughter Anna with you, Antigone. Long after your time, when the geographical globe has been opened up, Freud discovers a dark concealed world in all of us. To him, women were also an—’
‘Stop it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I do not understand your nonsense. If you will help me, then help me. It will soon be light.’
But to have her – or the hallucination of her – so close had gone to Karimov’s head. He went down on his knees in the soiled grass. ‘Dearest Antigone, of course you can’t understand. How could you? But you are the most valued part of me, the feminine part of myself, the anima I have had to deny all my life. Now, on the final final day of my existence, you—’