by Gene Wolfe
"I've heard of you," this man told Themistocles. "I was in the army. So were some of my sons."
There was more such polite talk; I gave it scant attention, watching those who held the corpse instead, and those with them. There were seven in all, and they were studying us—Pasicrates, the black man, and me particularly—with equal intensity. Those whose hands were free fingered their javelins and the hilts of their big hunting knives.
Then the old man, whose son the dead youth was, spread his cloak upon the baggage in our cart and ordered them to lay the body on it. At that, everyone relaxed and smiled, and I found that I was smiling, too. I asked Io where we were going.
"To their house," she said happily. "We'll spend the night there and help out with the funeral tomorrow."
Themistocles had taken off his own cloak. He and the dead youth's father covered the corpse with it.
This house is old and very large; it has a tower, and there are other houses around it and a wall of stones about the whole, more than twice the height of a man. The dead youth's father is Ortygenes; he has eight living sons and a great many daughters. Aglaus says he has outlasted three wives.
One of the young men ran ahead to tell the many women here what had happened. They met us on the road wailing and tearing their hair.
Soon afterward, the eldest of Ortygenes's sons told Pasicrates, the black man, and me that he and his brothers, with some other men, intended to kill the boar that had killed Lykaon. All of us were anxious to go with them, and so was Polos; but I reminded him of the dead youth's wound and strictly forbade it.
We were far from the house when at last we heard the hounds— not the song of hounds on the scent, but the barks and sharp yelps by which hounds that have brought their quarry to a stand urge one another forward. Everyone began to run, and Pasicrates and the black man were soon far ahead of the rest of us. Though I ran as fast as I could, I was well behind, with one of Lykaon's brothers close behind me.
It shamed me that Pasicrates had outrun me. I do not like him, and I sense that he hates me—thus I sought some shorter route to the hounds and thought that I had found it. A moment more and I was alone, still in earshot of the chase but unable to see even the slowest of the other hunters. One check after another presented itself: first a tangle of thorn, then a sheer drop too great to jump. Very angry at my own folly and walking instead of running, I made my way slowly to open ground.
Then Fortuna, who had just played me so ugly a trick, chose to smile upon me. Not half a stade away and watching me through one eye stood a most promising bay colt; he trotted over at my whistle as though he had known me all his life. Though much of this countryside is too rough for horses, I saw immediately that here I might ride for two stades at least down the valley, and so be much nearer the boar than I was. I sprang onto the colt, and we skimmed the half-wild fields at a crackling gallop.
Now I must rely upon what the black man has told me about the hunt, with his fingers and speaking through his wife. The boar had taken shelter in an old wolf den, so that the hounds could not get behind it. Someone ran back to fetch fire with which to smoke it out; but as soon as he had gone, Pasicrates crawled into the den. If this is so, the Rope Maker must surely be the boldest man alive—and the most foolish.
The boar charged, as was only to be expected. Pasicrates's javelin caught it in back of the shoulder, leaving a raking cut along its ribs. The tusks that had torn Ortygenes's son made no more than a shallow gash across Pasicrates's thigh. Had the den been smaller, one or both would have died of course.
When the boar burst into the light, the black man was not the first, he says, to cast his javelin; but it was his that remained in the boar's body as it broke the ring of hounds and dashed into the forest.
And out of it, where I upon the bay colt caught sight of it with a score of hounds at its heels.
I cannot say whether the colt answered my hand or charged the boar of his own accord. My cast was lucky, as the sons of Ortygenes said afterward; but I was close when I made it, which is ever the mother of good luck.
At once the boar stumbled, and the hounds swarmed over it like so many ants on a dead beetle. All this was soon sponged from my thoughts by what came afterward; but now, as I write of it, I seem to see the boar again, the great, dark head with its flashing tusks lifted for the last time.
No one could tell me to whom the bay colt belonged, though several of the dead youth's brothers advised me to keep him until another claimed him. I dismounted, however, because I was eager to retrieve my javelin and (in truth) see whether it had pierced the boar's heart, as it had. With no one to watch him, the colt wandered away, though I would have caught and kept him if I had known of the injury to Pasicrates then.
The boar was gutted and its entrails thrown to the hounds, as the custom is. Someone felled a sapling, and we were binding the boar's feet over it when Pasicrates joined us, leaning upon the arm of the black man. He wished to know who had killed the boar—and was not much pleased, I think, to learn it had been I; he congratulated me nevertheless, and offered me his hand. I do not think I can ever have been very fond of him, but I came near to loving him at that moment. "I'll stay with you," I told him, "while they go ahead with the boar. Perhaps someone will bring one of Ortygenes's horses for you."
"No one has to stay with me," Pasicrates replied. "I can find my way back alone."
Then the black man, speaking with his fingers, told me to go with the boar and the men from the house, and to return with Themistocles's cart, if I could reach that spot with it.
I agreed and hurried ahead of those who carried the boar. That was when I glimpsed him trotting through the trees, Polos to the waist.
THIRTY-FOUR
The Feast Is Over
THERE WAS MUCH EATING, AND much wine drunk—far too much of it by me. I slept for a time, and woke to find myself stretched on the earth of the courtyard beside many another. It shamed me, and I rose and left this house and its proud wall behind me, and walked to the ford. There I was ill and washed, taking off my chiton and washing it, too, in the cold mountain water, wringing it out, and letting it dry awhile on a bush before I put it on again.
By then the sun was low, and I thought it best to return to this house. I spoke with Ortygenes, its owner; and afterward by the help of this lamp I read what I wrote yesterday. How I wish now that I had said plainly what it was I saw! Whom did I call "the goat man"? A goatherd? Surely I know the proper word for that!
This day was given over to the funeral rites of Lykaon, who was Ortygenes's son. Io helped the other women wash and perfume his body. There were thirty of them at least, when three might have done everything necessary with ease, but every woman in the place wanted to have a hand in it, and did. When it was complete, Lykaon was attired in his best clothes, with a fine green cloak and new sandals with white lachets.
Meanwhile, some of Ortygenes's male slaves had felled an old olive tree, a very large one already more than half-dead. Its wood was cut up and split, and every bit of living sapwood pared away. While the men were doing this, the children gathered many baskets of olive leaves and wove Lykaon's crown, of green twigs with their leaves still on them.
Ortygenes and his sons, aided by Themistocles and Simonides, the black man and me, and various others, prepared Lykaon's bed, first laying down very carefully a thick layer of pine kindling, then shaping the bed from the olivewood, with a hollow down the center to contain the leaves. (Pasicrates did not assist us in this because his leg pains him too much.) Io, who had left the other women to supervise the weaving of Lykaon's crown, carried it in. It was not until this crown had been fixed on Lykaon's head, she says, that the coin was laid upon his tongue; though small and old and worn almost smooth, the coin was gold, which impressed her greatly.
When everything had been made ready, Lykaon was carried in by his brothers, with his father, his sisters, and all the other women following the body. His father and his brothers preserved a manly silence; but the women we
pt and wailed aloud, even Io and Bittusilma.
Each brother spoke in turn, recounting some incident which recalled Lykaon's courage, honesty, cleverness, good nature, and so on; most were brief, but two marshaled too many words. His father then described the portents that had accompanied Lykaon's birth, recounted the prophecies he had received concerning him, and explained how each had been fulfilled.
Simonides recited verses he had composed for the occasion, describing the sorrow of Lykaon's noble ancestors at his death as they received him into the Lands of the Dead. (Afterward I asked Io whether she had enjoyed this poem. She said she had, but thought it somewhat inferior to one that she had once heard at the rites of a sailor.)
Ortygenes spoke again after Simonides, explaining to all those present that Simonides was a famous poet from Ceos, and praising Pasicrates and Themistocles.
Pasicrates spoke only briefly, first assuring the people of Bearland of the friendship of Rope, then explaining that it had been because of his desire to avenge Lykaon that he had entered the den of the boar.
Themistocles began by speaking of the friendship of Thought for both Bearland and Rope. It was in those places, and only in them, he said, that the ancient virtues of the Hellenes had been preserved. Thus, he said, they must become the teachers of the rest of Hellas, reminding the people of the high ideals of their forefathers, ideals exemplified by the noble youth lying before us. There was, Themistocles said, in his train, a man who each day forgot everything that had passed the day before; yet even he did not forget the training he had received in his youth, and thus—though he could not be wise—he was honorable, just, and brave. (I did not know he was speaking about me until I saw the faces of so many others turned toward me and Io thumped my ribs with her sharp little elbow; then my blood rushed to my cheeks and I resolved to commit some unworthy act so that Themistocles would never speak of me in that way again. But in truth I feel already that I have committed many.) So is it with Lykaon, said Themistocles. He has drunk of the waters of forgetting, the last, merciful gift of the kindly gods that spares the dead so much care; but the education he received in this house as a boy remains with him, and because it does he will be received among the dead as a hero.
It was not given to men to escape death, Themistocles said, but to the immortal gods alone; for a man the sole question was whether his death brought good or evil to his fellows. Today the Long Coast, the Silent Country, and the Islands, too, were gathered in friendship with Bearland to mourn her son. If the barbarian was eventually vanquished for good, it might well be because of this.
After Themistocles had spoken, Ortygenes ordered the torch to be brought, and the full mourning of the women began. They keened, wept, tore their hair, and scratched their cheeks until they streamed with blood, mourning not only Lykaon but all their dead, and confided to his ears messages of love, comfort, and longing, to be repeated when he should encounter their lost ones among the shades. His father, Themistocles, and even my Io, had penned letters, and these were put into the bosom of his peplos.
Then the torch was applied to the kindling, which took fire with a crackling that soon became a roar; and Lykaon's final bed was curtained with red fire. The day was hot, clear, and nearly windless. How bravely the towering column of sable smoke rose into the blue heavens! All of us backed away; even so, many a hair was singed on one and another. Through the leaping flames I caught sight of the very face of Death, and quickly turned my eyes away to look instead at the green grass, the lowing cattle, and the gracious olive trees that are mine—though they are in fact Ortygenes's—for a brief while longer. Soon I shall be as Lykaon, perhaps far less mourned, soon remembered only by these scrolls.
The sacrificial beasts were a young bull, three rams, and three black he-goats. They were dedicated in good style to the chthonian gods and roasted upon Lykaon's funeral pyre. The boar we hunted yesterday was roasted, too; there was more than enough meat for everyone present. The black man told me I had killed the boar, which I had already forgotten. He says also that we saw a much larger boar in Thrace. No one succeeded in killing that one, however.
Aglaus stopped to speak with me, and I asked how old he is. He is in his thirty-second year, though he looks so much older—I think because his hair has begun to gray and he has lost some teeth. His father was called Aglaus also. He asked whether the letters I use were pictures. I explained that they are, A being the head of an ox and so on; but that I did not intend an ox now when I set down A. I showed him how to write his name in my own tongue, scratching the letters in the dirt.
He thought that the goat man was a certain god who lives in the mountains of Bearland. His name is All. I asked how he came to bear this strange name, and Aglaus said that he is the fourth son of Time and Earth, though his brothers do not recognize his claim to the fourth world, which is this one. The other three are the sky, the sea, and the Lands of the Dead, which lie under the earth. It is he who brings terror at noon to those who wake him from his slumber. I asked whether Aglaus had ever seen him. He affirmed that he had. Io, who had come to listen to us, says that this god aided the men of Thought against the barbarians at Fennel Field.
When Aglaus had gone, I asked Io about the letter that she had put into Lykaon's bosom. At first she did not want to tell me, but when I promised I would not tell anyone else, she told me it was to her parents. She does not know whether they are dead, but believes they may be. She said she told them she was well and happy and has a fine man, but that she misses them both very much. I wanted to ask her who this man is, but she was crying, so I comforted her instead.
Now only what I said to Ortygenes remains to be written.
I found him staring into the embers. There were many men around him, all asleep. He had a skin of wine and offered some to me, but I refused it. He asked whether I had ever seen his son alive. I could not remember, and shook my head.
"He wasn't as big as you," he said. "We hardly ever are. But the old blood ran true in him."
I said that everyone had told me what a fine young man he had been.
"Are you a Bundini?" Ortygenes asked. "Some tribe of the Getae?" I could say only that I did not know; in any case, I do not think he heard my reply.
"Our line fought on the windy plain of Ilion," he told me, "but in his entire life my poor boy never saw anything beyond these mountains.
" 'Some marks of honor on my son bestow,
And pay in glory what in life you owe.
Fame is at least by heavenly promise due
To life so short, and now dishonor'd, too.
Till the proud king and all the Achaean race
Shall heap with honors him they now disgrace.'
"Here's a secret—you'll forget it anyhow, what's-his-name says. Know who the Achaeans are?"
I admitted I did not.
"We are," Ortygenes said, "and I'm a king in hiding. You think we'll ever win our country back? We won't. Nations are like men— growing old, never young. My son had the misfortune to be a young man of an old nation. So did I, once. Yours is young still, whatever it is. Give thanks."
This morning we entered the Silent Country. Themistocles gave Aglaus money and dismissed him; but when we halted for the first meal, we discovered that he had been following us, which made the Rope Maker very angry. Themistocles permitted Aglaus to share our food, but told him to return to his own land after he had eaten, that we no longer required a guide and would not pay him anything more. Aglaus was very humble, saying he would serve us without pay, like a slave, and do whatever work Tillon and Diallos thought too hard. Themistocles shook his head and turned away.
Then Bittusilma and Io spoke to the black man and me. The black man has money, it seems, and so do I. (Io is keeping mine for me; it is on the cart.) They proposed that we should employ Aglaus as our servant, each giving him a spit on alternate days. The black man was doubtful, but I said that if he did not wish to do it, I would hire Aglaus myself to wait upon Io, Polos, and me; then the black man agreed to t
he arrangement Bittusilma and Io had originally suggested. Aglaus rejoiced when we told him, and I think even Themistocles and Simon-ides were happy, though they tried to appear otherwise. Tillon and Diallos welcome him now as a comrade.
I have said nothing, only nodding when Io explained the new arrangement to him; yet I welcome him, too, as something more. When he arrived, as we sat eating, I recalled a silver chariot. I remember standing in it and holding the reins, though no horses were harnessed to it. Perhaps it is only an imagined object in my memory palace, but I do not think so; it seems to me that it stands among rocks, not walls. If having Aglaus near helps me remember, I would pay him much more than a spit.
Tonight I read about Lykaon's cremation, and what Ortygenes said to me. When I had finished, I asked Pasicrates whether the people of Bear-land were called Achaeans. He said that they were not, the Achaeans having been destroyed by the Dorians, his own tribe, who had slaughtered all their men and seized their women. Aglaus confirmed it—but looked (or so it appeared to me) rather too serious.
THIRTY-FIVE
Cyklos of Rope
THE JUDGE TO WHOM CIMON gave me a letter has welcomed me, with Io and Polos, into his home. I had forgotten the letter (as I have forgotten the man called Cimon) but Io says I showed it to her before I rolled it into my old scroll, and she told me what it was and gave it to me when I needed it. Cyklos is of middle height; though his hair is as gray as iron, no young man could stand more straight. I have not seen him smile.
I should set down here that the wounded Rope Maker who was with us ran ahead of us when we neared Rope, though it clearly gave him a great deal of pain to run. Nothing of that showed in his expression, and the strides he took with his right leg were as long as those with the left; but when he looked back to wave good-bye to us, his face was white. After seeing it, I watched him closely as he ran, and twice he nearly fell. Themistocles and Simonides had tried to dissuade him, but he said that it was his duty to announce us, and as long as he could do his duty he would do it. I offered to send Polos, who runs very swiftly, in his place; but he would not hear of that.