Dahut

by Poul Anderson

  “I’m too lowly, I think,” Tommaltach replied.

  Gratillonius shook his head. “Nay. This will be the Mystery of Creation, when all men are one.” Maybe so. It seemed plausible. The books and memories he had ransacked said hardly anything about Tauroctony in the flesh; the rite was too seldom performed. He had actually discovered more about the Tarubolium of Cybele, but it was a disgusting thing, fit for a cult in which men had often gelded themselves.

  His band was to redeem a sacred promise in clean and manly wise. Surely Mithras would also want it done sensibly.

  “’Tis honored I am, Father,” Tommaltach said.

  “You may find you’ve won the riskiest part,” Gratillonius warned.

  “Sure, and that helps make me the handfast man of my King.”

  Gratillonius fled from the worshipfulness in that soft accent, into talk about how best the matter could be carried out. From days on the family farm he well remembered the ways of slaughtering large animals. But it would not be right to stun this bull first with a sledge hammer. He should be fully alive when he died for the God and the people.

  Worse, the Hammer was Taranis’s, whose high priest the King of Ys was…. Lightning ignited the whole sky. Thunder struck brutal blows.

  The procession came out on Point Vanis and reapproached the bend of Redonian Way. A sickle moon should have gleamed at their backs and the last stars ahead of them as whiteness entered the east. Instead, night raved. Ys was invisible, save in livid blinks which made the sea ramping under its wall shine like enemy weapons. Gratillonius would only be able to guess at the moment of sunrise.

  He lifted his glance. Mithras shall have His honor, he told Them.

  At the grave of Eppillus he stopped. “Here will we make the offering,” he said. A part of the fight against the Franks had spread this far, and in any event, no spot on the headland could be more hallowed. “But the feast—Ronach, you know. Start the fire.”

  The Osismian saluted and led the woodcart onward, to a dip near the brink that gave some slight lee. Gratillonius stood by with his fellow officers, holding his cloak tightly to preserve what dignity he might, while Ravens, Occults, and Soldiers groped about, unloading the second cart. Doubtless curses got muttered, strewn seaward by the blast. Much of the freight was furniture and ritual objects to be carried after Ronach, but vestments and sacred implements were there as well.

  Gratillonius needed scant change of garb. For this ceremony, unlike those in the crypt, he, the Father, already wore tunic of white wool, sandals, and sword, like Mithras at the first Slaying. He simply doffed his cloak and donned a Phrygian cap. Fleetingly, he thought of taking off the Key. But no, in an obscure fashion he felt that that would be a betrayal. He left it against his breastbone.

  The Runner of the Sun, the Persians, and the Lions had more elaborate outfits, which required help. The fumbling seemed to go on for hours. Tommaltach found it ever harder to keep the bull soothed.

  Fire glimmered and flapped. Ronach returned. Was the world ever so faintly less black? Sometime about now, somewhere beyond the stormclouds, the Companion of Mithras rose in immortal glory. “Gather, gather,” Gratillonius called into the wind. “We shall begin.” A flurry of rain struck his face, half blinding him.

  The three lower ranks drew away and turned their backs on the Mysteries they must not witness until they had been elevated—apart from Tommaltach, and his attention was on the restless bull. Eyes rolled white, horns made motions of goring, hoofs pawed turf, breath gusted with a sound like waves breaking across reefs below.

  Lanterns stood dim under the headstone of Eppillus, which Gratillonius made his altar. The prayers and enactments were stripped-down, simple, because men heard the full rainstorm striding closer, and hailstones skittered ahead of it.

  Gratillonius went toward the bull. He drew his sword. “Mithras, God of the Morning—” Wind ripped the words away.

  Tommaltach did what he had said he could do. Cat-swift, he seized the great horns and twisted. The bull bellowed. He went down. Earth boomed. Tommaltach sprang back and snatched for his spear, ready to thrust.

  The bull rolled off his side, onto belly and knees. Gratillonius pounced. His left hand seized the nose-ring and hauled. The huge head followed, with a roar of agony and rage. Gratillonius struck home, just in front of the right shoulder. The impact was thick. Blood spurted over him.

  He got clear before a horn could catch him in the beast’s death struggle. Panting, he stood and watched. There were more prayers to say, but not till the bull lay quiet; sooner would be indecent, like gloating.

  Lightning smote near Lost Castle, a bolt many-fingered, as if it sought. Thunder drowned trumpetings that turned to sobs, gurgles, finally silence. Hail whitened the headland. Rain came in a wind-harried torrent.

  Gratillonius consecrated the sacrifice. He caught blood from it in a chalice, drank, shared with Verica, on behalf of all. The liquid was sticky, hot, and salt. He cut slabs of meat, which his underlings carried off to roast. Much more remained than this tiny gathering could eat. The carcass must be dismembered and burned before the worshippers left. The Ravens would come back later and get rid of the calcined bones.

  Unless the storm quenched the fire. His concelebrants trudged after Gratillonius. Those who stayed to tend the fire had stoked it high. Flames rumbled and steamed from a white-hot core. Rain struck, steamed, hissed away. The sacred meal could be cooked at least partly. Father, Runner of the Sun, Persians, Lions could lie drenched on the benches and be served by their slogging Soldiers, Occults, and Ravens, bleakly chewing and gulping in laud of Mithras.

  And yet, and yet, they did! When they had finished, Gratillonius rose to give benediction. Suddenly, uncontrollably, he threw his head back and laughed into the sky, at the Gods of Ys.

  4

  “He refuses to call a Council for dealing with the matter,” Vindilis related. “He claims ’twould be needlessly divisive when—he claims—no desecration occurred. If we must bring it up, he says, we can do so at equinox.”

  “Shall we?” asked Innilis timidly. Held out on Sena these past three days by the storm and heavy seas that were slow to die down afterward, she had only returned to Ys this morning. Vindilis had kept herself informed, and sought the rosy house as soon as possible. She had wanted to be the one to break the news. Even so, it would strike hard at her beloved.

  “Ha!” The tall woman prowled the conference room as if its trim of blue and gold, floral murals, fragile objects of beauty were a cage. Her haggard countenance kept turning to the window, full of cloudy noontide. “A month hence? Well does he know how futile that would be, after such a time. Whatever indignation most of the Suffetes now feel will have damped out into indifference. Already, my listeners tell me, already the common folk are with Grallon. Most say, when they trouble—or dare—to talk about his deed in the taverns or shops or streets—most say he must be right. For is he not their wonderful King, on whose reign fortune has always smiled?”

  Innilis, seated on the couch, looked down at the fingers that writhed in her lap. “Could it be true?” she whispered. “Why should the Gods, our Gods be jealous that he sacrifices to his?”

  “A blood sacrifice on Lir’s clifftops, beneath Taranis’s heaven? Nay, my darling, you’re too loath to condemn.”

  “What do… our Sisters think?”

  Vindilis sighed. “Bodilis, Tambilis, Guilvilis in her halfwit fashion, of course they defend him. Maldunilis is passive as ever, weakly frightened, hopeful this thing will go away. We’re keeping word of it from poor Fennalis. Lanarvilis was as shocked as myself, but soon decided political necessity requires smoothing the scandal over. She’s trying to mollify Soren Cartagi.”

  “Soren?”

  “Oh, he was wild with fury. He feels this was a treachery against him, after he’d sided with Grallon in Council about the attack on the Franks. Lanarvilis undertook to soothe him enough that he’ll at least continue working with the King on matters of public concern, as er
enow. ’Tis better than Grallon deserves. I could almost wish those two, Lanarvilis and Soren, would finally share the bed they’ve longed for all these years.”

  Innilis gasped.

  Vindilis smiled starkly. “Fear not. They never will. There’s been too much sacrilege done. He’ll thrust himself into her—Grallon—as he will the rest of us. Unless we deny ourselves to him. I’ve done that.” A yelp of laughter. “He was polite. Accepted instantly. Aye, relieved.” Vindilis halted before the other woman and peered downward at her. “You, though,” she murmured, “could punish him thus.”

  “Oh, nay, I, I’m such a little bag of bones—”

  “Beautiful bones, beneath exquisite flesh,” Vindilis breathed.

  Innilis paled, reddened, paled. Her eyes fled to and fro, never lifting. “He likes me. He’s gentle, and, and sometimes—Nay, I beg you, make me not hurt him…. What of Forsquilis?”

  “She was shaken, took omens, would not tell us what they were but said—if Lir and Taranis strove that dawn to stop the deed, then Mithras prevailed over Them. For her part, she’d stand by her King, whatever may befall him. And off she went, defiantly, arrogantly, to the palace where he was; and nobody saw them again till morning.”

  Innilis shuddered. “Could she… have spoken sooth?” she whispered.

  “It may be. It may be. Taranis and Lir—but Belisama bides Her time. I think She will not wait long.”

  Seeing terror, Vindilis sat down, laid an arm around the waist of Innilis, drew her close. “Be brave, sweetling,” she said low. “She Whom we serve will not strike at us, surely, for his wrongdoings. We must stay together, we Sisters, share our solace, strength, love.”

  Her free hand caressed the small breasts, then traveled upward to loosen the knot of the silken cord that fastened Innilis’s gown at the neck. Her lips fluttered over a cheek, toward the mouth.

  “Nay, please,” Innilis asked, “not at once. I’m too—horrified—I cannot—”

  “I understand,” Vindilis answered quietly. “Nor do I myself want more than your nearness. I only long to have you by me, hold you in my arms, and you hold me. Will you give me that hour of peacefulness?” Abruptly she seemed frail, vulnerable, old.

  5

  Dahut arrived at the house of Fennalis while the moon was rising over the eastern hills, ruddy and enormous. As yet its rays streamed unseen, for the sky was still blue, Ocean still agleam with sunset; tower heights flared brilliant, through beneath them dusk had begun to steal like a mist through the crooked streets of Lowtown. Bodilis opened the door for her. An instant the two stood silent, regarding each other. The vestal had not paused to change from her white dress of Temple duty. That, and tresses high-piled, caused her to shine amidst shadows, a lighted candle. The woman was plainly clad, in garb that carried a smell of sweat, her own hair disarrayed. She slumped with weariness.

  “Welcome at last,” she said tonelessly, “I hoped you could come straightaway when I’d sent for you.”

  Dahut spread her palms. “I’m sorry. I might have asked leave, but I was to take part in evensong and… this is no time to slight the Goddess, is it? Now when She may be wrathful, and Her moon has reached the full.”

  “Mayhap. Yet I cannot believe She’d want Her Fennalis to suffer lengthened pain.”

  “I am sorry!” Dahut exclaimed, on the least note of impatience. “I thought Innilis—”

  “Oh, Innilis had been here, and failed. You were the final hope. I should have told Malthi to tell you that, but I was tired, I forgot.” Bodilis stood aside and beckoned. “Come.”

  Dahut entered the atrium. It was turning crepuscular. “You, you do realize I know not if I can do aught either?” she said. “When a Queen, a healer Queen, cannot. There was just that moment with my father. Of course I pray the Goddess lend me power to help. Fennalis was always kind to me.”

  “To everybody.” Bodilis led the way toward the bedchamber.

  Dahut plucked at her sleeve and asked, “Are none of our simples of any avail?”

  Bodilis shook her head, “Nay. Formerly, the juice of the poppy; but she can no longer keep anything down. Hemp smoke gives some ease still, but only when the pangs are not too sharp.”

  “I knew not. I should have come to see her oftener.”

  “That would have gladdened her. She loves you. But the young are ever wont to shun the dying.”

  Dahut lowered her voice. “Death is the single remedy left, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.” Bodilis stopped. She gripped Dahut’s arm hard. “I’ve even thought of giving it to her myself. The books tell that hemlock is gentle. But I was afraid. Belisama calls Her Gallicenae to Her when She wills. Pray, though, pray for an ending.”

  “I will.” Dahut’s eyes were moon-huge in the gloom.

  A seven-branched candleholder illuminated the room. The air was close and full of murk; it stank so badly that the maiden almost gagged. Lately changed, the bedding was wet again, sweat, urine, foul matter that dribbled out despite Fennalis not having eaten for days. Hair lay thin and lank over the blotchy face. The skin of the jowls sagged away from a nose that had finally become prominent. She breathed in uneven gusts. Now and then she made a mewing sound. It was impossible to say whether she recognized when Dahut bent above.

  The virgin looked off to the image in a niche beyond the foot of the bed. It showed Belisama the Crone, though not hideous as ofttimes; this aged lady smiled serene and lifted a hand in blessing. Dahut gestured and murmured. Bodilis reverently raised her arms.

  It was yarrow that Dahut stroked Fennalis with and laid beneath the head of. The princess could not altogether hide repugnance while she bared the swollen body and passed fingers over; her words stumbled.

  Nonetheless, as she ministered, Fennalis grew quiet, closed her eyes, and slowly smiled. Dahut straightened. “I believe you have done it,” Bodilis whispered in awe. “Yours is the Power of the Touch. What other potencies do you bear within?”

  Triumph rang softly: “I’m glad. The Goddess chose me.”

  A water jug, washbasin, soap, and towel were in the room. Dahut cleansed her hands fastidiously. “Sleep well,” she said to Fennalis, but did not kiss her before leaving.

  Bodilis accompanied Dahut to the door. “Please come back tomorrow early,” the Queen requested.

  “Certes. It will be a free day for me.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At Maldunilis’s. Did you not know?” In the past year, Dahut had taken to occupying the home of whoever had Vigil. Her clothes and other possessions she stored at the palace, for servants to bring upon demand. Just the same, she talked ever oftener about getting a place of her own.

  “I’d forgotten, as tired as I am.” The Gallicenae had been caring for their Sister by turns. However, for several days now a fever had confined Lanarvilis and Guilvilis. It was not grave; word was that they would be back afoot tomorrow; meanwhile, double duty fell on the rest. Bodilis had assumed the entire nursing, since she could postpone a number of her usual tasks, such as directing the library or advising on the esthetics of public works.

  Dahut hugged her. “May you soon be relieved.”

  “May Fennalis. Goodnight, dear.”

  When the door had closed on the girl and the moon-brightened twilight, Bodilis leaned against it a while, eyes nestled into the crook of her arm. “Semuramat—Tambilis,” she muttered, “I hope you are having pleasure this eventide.” Straightening: “Nay, that was self-pity.” She laughed at herself for thus talking to herself and returned to the bedroom. “Malthi,” she called, “we need you again.”

  Reluctantly, the serving-woman came to assist in washing Fennalis, changing the bedding, carrying off the soiled stuff. The patient had become able to help a bit, rolling over as needed, drowsily, without showing pain. “I think you can go sleep,” said Bodilis at the end of the task.

  “You, my lady?” inquired the maid.

  “I’ll keep watch for a span.” Bodilis dossed in an adjoining chamber, the
door between left ajar. “I’ve thoughts to think ere I can await the blind God.”

  She settled herself in a chair and reached for one of the books she kept on a side table. She had spoken truth. There were certain disturbing questions to consider, after what had just happened. But first she would seek easement. Epictetus lay three centuries dust; it did not matter; his implacable calm spoke still.

  “All things serve and obey the laws of the universe: the earth, the sea, the sun, the stars, and the plants and animals of the earth. Our body likewise obeys the same, in being sick and well, young and old, and passing through the other changes decreed. It is therefore reasonable that what depends on ourselves, that is, our own understanding, should not be the only rebel. For the universe is powerful and superior, and consults the best for us by governing us in conjunction with the whole. And further, opposition, besides that it is unreasonable, and produces nothing except a vain struggle, throws us into pain and sorrows.”

  “Bodilis.”

  Though she barely heard, a part of her had stayed alert. She put the book aside and went to the bed. Fennalis smiled up at her.

  “How fare you?” Bodilis asked.

  “I feel at peace,” Fennalis whispered.

  “Oh, wonderful. Dahut wrought that.”

  “I have a dream-memory of her, but all was so confused then. Now the world is clear. Clear as the sacred pool—” Words faded away.

  “Can I bring you aught? Water, milk, soup, bread?”

  Fennalis feebly shook her head. “Thank you, nay.” She lay mustering strength until she could say: “I would like—do you remember the story about… the girl, the bird, and the menhirs? My mother used to tell me it when I was little….”

  Bodilis nodded. “A Venetic tale, no? Do you care to hear it again?”

  “That would… be pleasant—”

  Bodilis brought her chair to the bedside and settled back down. “Well,” she began, “once long ago there was a girl-child who lived near the Place of the Old Ones, where the cromlechs stand tall and the dolmens brood low and the menhirs are marshalled in their hundreds, rows of thern reaching on and on and on. This was so long ago that the great bay there was dry land. Forest grew thick upon it. That was a lonely place to live, loneliest of all for her, because she was the sole child of her father, whose wife was dead, and he a charcoal burner whose hut stood quite by itself in the woods. The girl kept house for him as best she was able. For playmates she had only the breezes, the daisies, the sunflecks that flit on the forest floor when wind stirs branches, and the butterflies that dance with them. She often wished for friends, and longed to go to the Place of the Old Ones. Her father had never let her. When she asked, he said it was haunted. But she dreamed of elvenfolk, unearthly beautiful, who came forth by moonlight and danced, still more gracefully than butterflies, among the solemn stones.