The 22 Letters

by King, Clive; Kennedy, Richard;

  He waited until the men started coming from their tents, and the horse breakers were making their way to the horse lines. Then he untethered the big bay and led it into the middle of the exercise ground. The men seemed surprised and they looked at each other and asked who was foolish enough to want to waste time with this bolter. The young man was crosser than ever: he was not ready to make a fool of himself yet again. But Zayin smiled cheerfully at them and said politely and clearly, using the few words he knew in their tongue:

  “Me—ride—this horse.”

  And pausing just long enough to see understanding dawning on their faces, followed by various expressions of astonishment and fury, he leaped on to the back of the bay.

  The horse threw its head up, bunched all its muscles, and bolted. It was the one thing it had learned to do with a man on its back. Zayin made no attempt to stop it. He concentrated on staying on, yet he could not resist turning his head, to see what was happening in the camp. As he had intended confusion at once broke loose. Men rushed for the horses tethered by the tents, mounted and discovered too late that they were galloping off with a cooking pot bounding behind them, or a sleeping mat flapping wildly through the air, or an excited dog making rings round the horse on the end of a line. Others rushed for the bridles, and cursed as they fought to unravel one vast irreducible tangle. Bows were snatched up for the bowstrings to snap in the archers’ face. Green horses reared in alarm at the horse lines, pulled up their picket pegs, or slipped their head ropes, and milled around adding to the confusion. Zayin was only sorry he could not stay and watch the fun.

  He had seen the bay gallop, and he was satisfied that there was no other horse in the camp that could catch it, even without the handicaps he had prepared for them. All he had to do now was to cling on, and use what influence he had to guide the horse’s flight in a generally south-westward direction. He found the first to be easier than he expected: the horse seemed to speed smoothly through the air like an arrow, its feet hardly touching the ground. And by pulling on the left rein only and leaning his weight to the left he was able to persuade the bolting animal on to a curving course which led, he hoped, where he wanted to go. As for the horse, it did not seem to care where it went as long as it bolted.

  Zayin guessed that it had had more than one experience of running away with a man, who had been only too pleased to let it go, and walk back. What the foolish animal did not realize was that this time it had a passenger who wanted to run away just as much as it did.

  Zayin had been prepared for a rough ride, but he was amazed at the comfort of going at a flat gallop. He whooped and sang to himself and to the horse, which pricked up its ears, laid them back again determinedly, and hurtled on over the plain. He looked back and saw figures far behind him in pursuit. He whooped and flourished his whip, but did not need to use it. He looked ahead, saw the dry gully of a stream and had no time to wonder what the horse would do before they were sailing through the air. He lurched as the horse landed, but stayed on and his mount continued at renewed speed. When he had recovered his seat he looked round again. There was no sign of the pursuit. Already they must have called it off. Apart from revenge for the trick played on them, what were they losing after all? A troublesome slave and an uncontrollable horse. He did not think they would go to great lengths to recapture him. He was on his own. Except for the horse.

  The next part of his escape Zayin had not been able to plan. Presumably even this animal could not go on for ever, but when it would stop and what it would do then he had no idea. In the meantime he was happy to go on and on, adding up the leagues between himself and the camp. The surprising thing was that the horse was not even showing signs of fatigue. It seemed to have only one pace—flat out. Two paces, perhaps, thought Zayin—flat out and stop. So look out for the stop, he told himself, it might be sudden.

  That thought probably saved Zayin. He was determined not to part company with his mount. He did not waste time trying to control it, but concentrated on staying on. And so when the stop did come suddenly, he was prepared for it. The animal all at once put out its forelegs and slid on its hocks to a halt. Zayin lurched forward on to its neck, but clung on. The horse stood there, breathing in great gasps, turned its head, and looked at him rather foolishly.

  “Yes, my friend, I’m still here,” said Zayin.

  The horse stood there, gradually getting its breath back, but not moving a limb for what seemed a long, long time.

  “Take your time, boy,” said Zayin, “I’ve nothing else to do either.” He sat there, waiting for the horse’s next move, still prepared for something sudden. He had seen all that horses could do when they were untrained—buck-jumping and rearing and twisting. But this horse seemed to have no such tricks.

  And all of a sudden they were off again. From a dead stop the horse seemed to spring into full gallop, but Zayin kept his seat and the horse kept the pace at which he had started in the morning. Zayin had no idea of how long they had been traveling, but he felt as if they had already covered half the weary march between Gebal and the Valley of the Horses. All the same, he doubted if any animal could keep up this pace all the way to Gebal. For now Zayin was determined to bring the animal back home—or rather that it should bring him back. But he was beginning to be afraid that it might run itself to death before they ever got there.

  They were still traveling along flat, level ground, but the plain seemed to be closing in again to form a river valley, and there seemed to be mountains ahead. Zayin began to worry what would happen if they met rough country, rocks and gorges perhaps. This animal was no sure-footed mountain goat. And he nearly paid the penalty for not concentrating, for the horse once again came to a sudden slithering stop. Zayin lurched forward again, slid over the animal’s neck, and this time slipped to the ground. But he landed on his feet and stood there, firmly holding the reins.

  “Well,” said Zayin to the horse. “We have traveled far, you and I, thanks mainly to you! And I am free, but you, I fear, are not. We shall keep together, and we shall go the way I wish. Come, let’s drink on it!” And he led the horse toward the river, the animal following docilely.

  Nearby a shallow stream rippled over a stony bed, surrounded by trees and rocks. They both drank thirstily; then Zayin carefully hobbled the horse, putting a short length of hide rope between its forelegs so that it could take short steps among the rich herbage of the riverbank, but could not run away. Lastly he sat down under an overhanging rock, took some food from his bag, and ate.

  By the sun, the time was well on into the afternoon. Although he did not know where he was, he felt he had traveled far enough for that day. He lay on his back and watched the branches against the blue sky. A flock of birds flew overhead, very high. Pigeons! He thought of the birds his little sister fed, and wondered if they flew as far afield as this. Then in the hot afternoon he fell asleep.

  When he awoke he took the bow which he had brought with him from the camp, and wandered around the riverbanks looking for something to shoot. But there were only some small birds, and he was not going to waste his few arrows on such difficult targets. Instead, he found some wild berries, refreshed himself with them, and took a little more food from his bag as an evening meal. How he envied the horse for being able to find fresh food growing in any place where herbage grew. It was a better soldier than he, living off the land as it did. Then, making himself comfortable under a rock for the night, he shut his eyes and went to sleep again. But in the cold of the night, and without any covering, he did not rest very well.

  Next morning he washed and breakfasted and went to catch the horse, which he did without much difficulty. The horse, at least, looked refreshed and full of energy again. Zayin bridled it, took off the hobbles, and stood holding it in doubt. For a moment he wished that he had stolen an animal that was better trained for his journey. Would this mad creature set off at a blind gallop again as soon as he was on its back, and possibly break a li
mb among the rocks or hurl them both over a chasm? Would it even head back to the open plains from which they had come the day before? Ahead, the valley became narrower, and the way more and more broken. Zayin decided to lead the animal through the valley. A horse with no medium paces was all very well for a dramatic breakaway, but it was not to be trusted over rough country. Yet he wondered if he was not being faint-hearted.

  They made some progress in this way during the forenoon, along the banks of the river. As usual, the horse behaved itself perfectly when led, but Zayin felt vexed and frustrated at having to walk. So when they came to a meadow entirely surrounded by steep rocky slopes, with no horizon to run for, he decided that this might be the place for a little schooling. Zayin led the horse to the middle of the grassy space and got on its back. Its head went up, and it looked around, snorting and quivering. Then, seeing no outlet, the bay simply stood still and tried to graze. When Zayin struck it smartly with his whip it started jerking backward. A simple forward walk or trot was what this horse found impossible. Zayin dismounted, cursing, and once more led the animal on foot.

  So for two or three days they traveled along the valley through which the river descended from the high inland plain. Every day Zayin asked himself why he burdened his existence with this animal. All it did was carry his food bag, and that was nearly empty, though he rationed himself strictly. The horse, of course, gorging itself on lush grass every night, grew fatter. But still, it was some kind of company on the march.

  Then on the third day they came to a place where the valley bottom suddenly broadened out again, and when they skirted round a low hill there was nothing but flat land between them and the horizon. A dead straight, deep blue horizon—the sea!

  Zayin and the horse both lifted up their heads and sniffed the air—Zayin because he was back on the coast after all these weeks, the horse because it was free of the hemming-in mountains. Zayin suspected that it might never have seen the sea.

  Zayin smiled. “Horse,” he said, “I shall call you Horizon, because that is what you always aim at. Horizon, here we come!”

  He leapt on Horizon’s back, the horse threw up his head, looked at the far distance, and bunching his muscles shot off like an arrow from a bow, with Zayin clinging with his legs and waving his arms and hallooing. Down the last grassy foothills of the mountains they galloped, across the coastal flatland, bursting through clumps of reeds and sending flights of duck flapping madly into the air, between dunes of white sand, and on to the firm level beach. And then Horizon, feeling nothing but space around him, put on a burst of even greater speed and headed for the flat calm sea. There was barely a ripple on the surface, and to Horizon it must have seemed merely a vast blue plain with no obstacles to his headlong progress.

  The salt water splashed up in showers that drenched them both all over. The horse’s movements, for the first time, became hesitant and doubtful, and then they were moving slowly forward, breast-high in the warm water.

  “Well, Horizon, my friend,” laughed Zayin. “What are we stopping for? Are you letting a little water damp your spirits? There’s nothing between us and the Isle of Cyprus, so they say. Except water!”

  But the plains-bred horse was baffled and bewildered, and completely out of his element. For the first time ever, he felt that the rider was master of the situation, and obeyed the control of the reins. Zayin turned his head south, for somewhere there lay Gebal, but he kept the horse in the breast-deep water, and Horizon, cured at last of his longing for far distances, proceeded calmly along at a gentle walk. Zayin even found that, between land and water, he could urge his steed to a trot and canter, and ease him back to a walk again. So he kept him at it, and they continued southward at a fair rate of progress, and Horizon’s education progressed at the same time.

  That afternoon Zayin saw houses ahead on the coast, and he reined the horse to a halt. Where were they? It could not be Gebal yet, and if it was not it must be another of the coastal cities, Ugarit perhaps, where they had no love for the Giblites. Somehow he must get round it. Inland lay mountain country which he did not know, and he could not rely on the horse in the mountains. He would have to try to slip by along the shore. One thing he was sure of, that once Horizon took to his heels no man could catch him and it would have to be a swift arrow that would overtake him.

  The town ahead seemed to be of a considerable size, but there was no port and the boats were drawn up on the beach. But as he drew near he saw that he was unlucky, for the shore was crowded with people. What should he do? Turn back? If he left the sea there was no knowing what the horse might do—bolt in the wrong direction perhaps. The animal was getting excited now and less controllable: seeing the crowds perhaps made it think they were a herd of its own kind. Zayin edged it farther into the water and tried to turn back, but it would not turn. It forged ahead, half swimming from time to time. They were getting dangerously near the crowd on the beach, but Zayin could do nothing. He was near enough to see heads turned in his direction. They had been seen, and the horse was still going on. And the deep water was the one place where Horizon’s speed could not save them.

  Then Zayin saw the crowd stirring as if swept by the wind. All the faces were turned toward him—except for some that were already turned in flight. He heard cries of alarm, and the shrieks of women. Many of the people on the shore were now running headlong toward the town, others, too old or too overcome by the panic, were groveling in the sand. A white bull, probably a sacrificial animal, had broken loose and was cantering around among the fleeing people. What had caused this rout?

  Then it occurred to him to think what he must look like, emerging from the waves like an unknown monster. He was a sea-god, visiting the scene of sacrifice! He waved cheerfully to the few who were left on the beach and had the courage to raise their heads. “Sorry I can’t stop, my pious worshippers!” he called. “My thanks for the sacrifice!”

  So Zayin rode past Ugarit in the sea, and added another legend to its annals.

  That evening he frightened a family of fisher folk from their hut, and helped himself and the horse to bread and corn.

  From there onward, the coast became more rocky, and on the following days he had to take to the land. But every day his confidence as a horseman grew, and every day Horizon became more accustomed to pacing carefully along stony tracks, trotting along level stretches with Zayin on his back, and stopping and turning obediently at dangerous points. The mountains were always on one side and the sea on the other, and Zayin kept the horse’s head firmly turned toward the South.

  And then one hot afternoon, as Zayin lay resting in a grove near the sea, a flock of pigeons settled around him, and one pure white bird alighted on his knee. Zayin gently took it in his hand. “I know you, little bird,” he said. “You come from my sister.” And he took a ring from his little finger and tied it to the bird’s leg, and watched it as it took off again and flew away with its companions to the South.

  7

  The Bull-Dancers of Knossos

  Nun, the sailor, on the island of Crete—The bull-ceremony—The Queen from Tyre, and the myth of Europa and the Bull—Information of impending attack on Gebal by the Cretan navy

  It was the Day of the Bulls at Knossos. The court and the common people were gathered around the arena, the courtiers appearing indifferent and bored, the people expectantly awaiting the opening procession.

  First came the bearers of jars, great colored vessels of mingled wine and water. This they sprinkled over the dancing floor, the wine to placate the Earth-Goddess, the water to stop the dust flying in the eyes and noses of the spectators.

  Then came the soldiers, slim of waist, broad of shoulder, helmeted, and carrying their painted shields of bull’s hide, shaped like figures of eight.

  Then came pipers and drummers and trumpeters.

  Then came the bearers of the golden double-bladed axes, glinting in the sun, not weapons but symbols of anci
ent power.

  Then came the priestesses, gaily skirted, bare-breasted, dancing as they came, making with their arms the sign of the bull’s horns, and in their midst the chief priestess, holding in each hand a snake, dweller in the earth, symbol of the Earth—Goddess of fertility.

  Then came the young acrobats, the bull-dancers, in their groups, fair-haired, dark-haired, long-nosed, snub-nosed, all young and proud, each one confident of defying death at the horns of the bull.

  Among them was Nun. He alone felt apart from the pageantry. What am I doing here, citizen of Gebal, sea captain, cedar salesman, he was thinking; what have these fripperies to do with me?

  To the music of the pipes and drums the procession wound round the arena. As each section passed the royal box they turned and saluted King Minos and his Queen with upraised arms, sign of the Bull. Then they took their own seats.

  Nun found himself beside the tall young man of the North. In the ring was the first team of performers. “What team is that?” Nun asked his neighbor. “Where do they come from?”

  The other shrugged. “They say Ateni, Atenai, Athenis—something like that. I never heard of it. Some little town.”

  The team marched to the center of the arena and then took their places in extended formation. They had danced the bull-dance before and their drill was perfect.

  A trumpet sounded, a door opened, and a bull ran out into the arena and stood snorting and stamping and glaring around him.

  For the first figure of the dance the bull was lured into the center of the ring of dancers and stood there, uncertain which one to attack. The dancers stood around, calling to the bull in solemn mockery, making the sign of the two uplifted arms or the two uplifted fingers, provoking him, eager for the honor of being the first to be attacked. The bull fixed his eyes on one of them and charged. This was the test—the dancer who provoked the charge had to stand his ground. Then at the last moment the dancer next to him ran across and deflected the charge to himself. Then, when the bull seemed to be gaining on the second dancer, a third would interpose and the bull would follow him. The music still played, and Nun found it difficult to believe that the bull was not deliberately joining in a formal dance, setting to a different partner in turn and threading an intricate measure in and out of the ring of men. But the sweat on the bodies of the men and of the beast was proof of the strain and exertion of what was going on in the ring. The bull had no rest as each of the team led him a dance: he was at full gallop all the time and Nun saw that he must be getting tired. But there were many occasions when his pointed horns missed brown bodies by less than inches, and the dancers’ faces sometimes showed how narrow were the escapes. At last the bull came to a stop, the dancers re-formed the ring around him and held his attention until a second team came up behind them and took their places.