Shardik

by Richard Adams

  On the right stood the Yeldashay troops--the entire Sarkid contingent who had marched from Kabin to close the Linsho Gap. Their line, too, extended to the water's edge, and their polished arms shone bravely in the light of the westering sun. In front, a young officer held aloft the corn sheaves banner, but as Melathys passed him he dropped on one knee, slowly lowering it until the blue cloth lay broad across the stones.

  With an extraordinary sense of grave, solemn joy, such as he had never known, Kelderek braced himself to go forward over the shore. Still he could not see the river, for between it and Melathys a third group was facing him--a single line, parallel with the water's edge, extending between the villagers and the soldiers. At its center stood Radu, pale and drawn, dressed, like Melathys, in villager's clothes, his face disfigured wtih bruises and one arm in a sling. On each side of him were some five or six of the slave children--all, it seemed, who had been able to find the strength to stand and walk. Indeed, it appeared to Kelderek, looking at them, that there might be some who could scarcely do so much, for two or three, like himself, were leaning on companions--village boys, they looked to be--while behind the line were benches, from which they had evidently risen at the approach of the priestess. He saw the boy with whom he had talked in the night and who had told him about Leg-By-Lee. Then he suddenly started, recognizing, at one extremity of the line, Shouter, who caught his eye for a moment and looked quickly away.

  As Melathys halted, soldiers took away the benches, the children moved apart in either direction, and now for the first time Kelderek saw the water's edge and the river beyond.

  A small fire was burning on the stones, a little in front of the shoreward extremity of the soldiers' line. It was bright and clear, with hardly a trace of smoke, and above the fire the air wavered, distorting the distant view. Yet this he scarcely noticed, standing, like a child, with one hand raised to his open mouth, staring at what lay immediately before him.

  In the shallows a heavy raft was moored--a raft bigger than the floor of a dwelling-hut, made of sapling trunks lashed together with creeper. It was covered with high-piled brushwood, logs and dry faggots, over which had been sprinkled flowers and green boughs. Upon this great bed, pressing it down as a fortress settles upon the ground where it is built, lay the body of Shardik. He was lying on one side, as naturally as though sleeping, one forepaw extended, the claws hanging down almost to the water. The eyes were closed--stitched, perhaps, thought Kelderek, observing with what care and pains the villagers and soldiers had carried out their work of preparing for his obsequies the Power of God--but the long wedge of the muzzle, if it had once been shut, had in some way burst its binding, so that now the lips snarled open around the pointed teeth. The poor, wounded face had been cleaned and tended, yet all that the soldiers had been able to do could not obliterate, to the eyes of one who had once seen them, the marks of Shardik's wounds and sufferings. Nor could the long, careful combing, the removal of briars and thorns and the brushing in of oil disguise the starved desolation of the body. It was not possible for Shardik to appear small, but less colossal he looked and, as it were, shrunken in the grip of death. There was a faint odor of carrion, and Kelderek realized that Melathys, from the moment that she heard the news, must have grasped the necessity of speed and known that she would barely have time to carry out all that the Tuginda would wish. She had done well, he thought, and more than well. Then, as he took yet a few more painful steps forward, his line of vision became direct and he saw what had been concealed from him before.

  Between Shardik's front paws lay the body of Shara. The extended paw covered her feet, while her raised head rested upon the other. She was bareheaded and dressed in a white smock, her hands clasped about a bunch of scarlet trepsis. Her fair hair had been combed over her shoulders and around her neck had been fastened a string of pierced and colored stones. Although her eyes were closed, she did not look as though she were asleep. Her thin body and face were those of a dead child, drained and waxen, and cleaner, stiller and more tranquil than ever Kelderek had seen them in life. Dropping his head on the soldier's arm, he sobbed as uncontrollably as though the shore had been deserted.

  "Steady now, mate, steady," whispered the kindly, decent fellow, ignoring everything but the poor foreigner clinging to him. "Why, they ain't there, you know. That ain't nothing, that ain't. They're off somewhere better, you can be sure of that. Only we got to do what's right and proper, 'aven't we?"

  Kelderek nodded, bore down on the supporting arm and turned once more to face the raft as Melathys passed close to him on her way to speak to Tan-Rion. Despite their debt to the Yeldashay she spoke, as was right, out of the authority conferred upon her and not as one asking a favor.

  "Captain," she said, "by the ancient rule of Quiso no weapons must be brought into any place sacred to Lord Shardik. I tell you this, but I leave you, of course, to order the matter as you think best."

  Tan-Rion took it very well. Hesitating only a moment, he nodded, then turned his soldiers about and marched them back a little distance along the shore. There each man grounded his spear and laid beside it his belt, short sword and knife. As they returned, halted and dressed their line, Melathys stepped forward into the shallows-and stood motionless before the raft, her arms outstretched toward Shardik and the dead child.

  How many times has that scene been depicted--carved in relief on stone, painted on walls, drawn with brush and ink on scrolls, scratched with pointed sticks in the wet sand of the Telthearna shore? On one side the fishermen and peasants, on the other the unarmed soldiers, the handful of children beside the fire (first, the very first, of all those to bless the name of Lord Shardik), the Man supported on the soldier's arm, the Woman standing alone before the bodies on the floating pyre? The sculptors and the painters have done what was required of them, finding ways to reflect the awe and wonder in the hearts of people who have known the story since they were little children themselves. The fisherfolk--handsome, strong young men, fine old patriarchs and their grave dames--face the resplendent soldiers in their red cloaks, each a warrior to conquer a thousand hearts. The Man's unhealed wounds bleed red upon the stones; the Woman is robed like a goddess; light streams from Lord Shardik's body upon the kneeling children, and the little girl smiles as though in her sleep, nestling between the strong, protecting limbs. The fire burns lambent, the regular wavelets lap white as wool upon the strand. Perhaps--who can tell?--this is indeed the truth, sprung like an oak from an acorn long vanished into the earth: from the ragged, muttering peasants (one or two already edging away to the evening chores); the half-comprehending soldiers obeying orders, their clothes and armor, conscientiously mended and burnished, showing every sign of a hard campaign and a forced march; from Shouter, trying for dear life to squeeze out a few tears; from Kelderek's uncontrollable trembling, Melathys' weary, dark-ringed eyes and homespun robe; from the grubby village flotsam bobbing in the shallows and the sorry huddle on the raft. These things were not remarked or felt at the time and now they have long disappeared, mere grains succeeded by the massive trunk above and the huge spread of roots below. And lost too--only to be guessed at now--are the words which Melathys spoke.

  She spoke in Ortelgan, a tongue largely unknown to the Yeldashay, though understood well enough by the Tissarn villagers. First she uttered the traditional invocation of Quiso to Lord Shardik, followed by a sequence of prayers whose archaic and beautiful periods fell from her lips without hesitation. Then, turning to face her listeners and changing her voice to an even tone of narration, she spoke of the finding of Shardik on Ortelga and the saving of his life by the priestesses of Quiso; of his coming alive from the Streel; of his ordained suffering; and of the sacred death by which he had saved the heir of Sarkid and the enslaved children from the power of evil. Kelderek, listening, marveled, less at her self-Possession than at the authority and humility present together in her voice and bearing. It was as though the girl whom he knew had relinquished herself to become a vessel brimmed with word
s old, smooth and universal as stones; and by these to allow mankind's grief and pity for death, the common lot of all creatures, to flow not from but through her. Out of her mouth the dead, it seemed, spoke to the unborn, as sand pours grain by grain through the waist of an hourglass. The sand was run at last and the girl stood motionless, head bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped at her waist.

  The silence was broken by the voice of the young flag officer beginning, like a precentor, the beautiful Yeldashay lament sometimes called "The Grief of Deparioth," but more widely known, perhaps, as "The Tears of Sarkid." This, which tells of the sacred birth and the youth of U-Deparioth, liberator of Yelda and founder of the House of Sarkid, is sung to this day, though perhaps it has altered through the centuries, just as they say the shapes of the constellations undergo change, no man living long enough to perceive it. The soldiers took up the lament, their solemn chanting growing louder and echoing from the Deelguy shore.

  Among the standing corn sheaves she lay down,

  In bitter grief the friendless girl lay down

  Wounded, alone, the curse of the Streel upon her,

  She bore the hero Deparioth, when Yelda lay in chains.

  The soldier beside Kelderek was singing with the rest, the words, coming to him unthinkingly, expressing for him his sense of forming a part of things greater than himself, his people, his homeland and those memories, his and no other man's, that made up his little share of human life.

  He knew neither his father nor his mother,

  Among strangers he labored as a slave,

  An exile, in a country not his own,

  The Lord Deparioth, God's appointed sword.

  The flag officer stepped forward, holding the corn sheaves banner before him, and was met from the opposite line by a villager carrying a fishing net in his arms. Together they turned riverward and walked toward Melathys, passed her on either side, waded into the shallows and placed their burdens on the raft. Radu, following them, laid his hand for a moment first on Shardik's gray claws and then on Shara's forehead. Returning up the shore, he drew a brand from the fire and stood waiting, holding it upright before him.

  If I could meet thee, thou mighty Lord Deparioth,

  If I could meet thee and clasp thy hand in mine,

  I'd tell thee thy deeds are not forgotten in Yelda,

  That the tears of Sarkid fall to honor thee still.

  The chanting sank and died away. As it did so, Melathys raised her head with a long, ululating cry that recalled instantly to Kelderek the city of Bekla lying silent in sacred darkness, the weight of his heavy robes and the sudden, upward leap of flame into the night sky.

  "Shardik! Lord Shardik's fire!"

  "Lord Shardik's fire!" responded the villagers.

  Radu approached slowly across the stones and held out to Kelderek the burning brand.

  For a few moments Kelderek, confused by the vividness of his memories, stood hesitant, unable to grasp what it was that he was being asked to do. Then, as his mind cleared, he started and took a step backward, one hand raised as though in refusal. Radu dropped upon one knee, still offering the fire.

  "Seems they think you're the one that's got to do it, sir," whispered the soldier. "Reckon you're up to it?"

  In the silence Kelderek could hear only the crackling of the flame and, beyond, the lapping of the water. Fixing his eyes on the raft, he stepped forward, took the brand from Radu and so came down the shore to where Melathys still stood waiting, with bowed head.

  Now he was standing alone in the water, none between him and the dead child, closer to Shardik than at any time since the day when he had come alive from the Streel. The bodies lay before him, the bear's, massive as a mill wheel seen against the wall of a mill, marked by the ropes with which it had been dragged into place and by the arrow's gash in the starved, pinched mask.

  He wondered whether they expected him to speak or to pray: then saw that he had no time, for the brand had burned low and must be used at once.

  "Senandril, Lord Shardik!" he cried. "Accept our lives, Lord Shardik Die-for-the-Children!"

  Up to his waist in the water, steadying himself against the edge of the raft with his wounded left hand, he thrust the brand into the pile of twigs and shavings before him. It caught immediately, burning up in the opaque, yellow flames of kindling. Withdrawing the brand, he lit again and yet again among the logs and sticks. Finally, as the butt began to crumble and to scorch his fingers, he tossed it, in a shower of sparks, to the top of the pyre. It lodged, burning, a few feet above the spot where Shara lay.

  The raft was pivoting slowly away from him. He let go of it clumsily, wincing to feel the pain shoot up his arm as he pushed himself upright. The soldiers behind him had released the mooring ropes, which now trailed past him on either side, rippling but invisible in the lurid shallows. For now the whole shoreward side of the pyre was burning, blazing in a wall of hot, translucent flames, green, red and black-flecked orange. The fire ran back into the heart of the pyre, disclosing its depth as sunlight shows the distance between forest trees; and as it burned higher, up into the green branches and flowers where Shardik lay, a thick, white smoke began to fume and drift to the shore, almost blinding Kelderek and those behind him.

  He choked, and gasped for breath. His eyes smarted, pouring water, but still he stood where he was. "Let it be so," he thought. "This is best, for I could not bear to see the bodies burn." Then, even as he felt himself about to faint in the smother, the heavy raft began to turn more swiftly, so that the bodies and the whole of the side along which he had lit the fire faced upstream. Four or five of the young fishermen had fastened the upstream mooring rope to a canoe and were drawing the raft out toward the center of the river.

  As it began to gather way, a storm of flames poured backward through the pyre. The sound of crackling changed to a hot, windy roaring and sparks and cinders raced upward, wavering and dodging like escaping birds. Logs began to shift and fall, and here and there a burning fragment dropped hissing into the water. Presently, cleaving through the noise of dissolution like a ploughshare through heavy soil, there rose once again the sound of singing. The villagers upon the shore were encouraging and urging on the young men at the paddles, who were laboring now as they drew farther out and began to be carried downstream with the current-borne raft.

  At dawn we come to the shore and loose our boats.

  If luck is with us none will be hungry tonight.

  Who has his net and who has skill with a spear?

  Poor men must live by any means they can.

  The raft was half a bowshot from land now and as far downstream from where Kelderek stood, but still the paddlers dug rhythmically into the water and the plume of smoke blew shoreward as they toiled to pull it farther out.

  Buying wisdom dear is the lot of men,

  And learning to make the most of what they've got.

  What I call luck's a fire and a bellyful,

  A girl for your bed and children to learn your craft.

  They clapped and stamped as they sang, in the rhythm of the paddles, and yet it was a grave and not unfitting sound, of a minor cadence, homely and shrewd, the single music of folk whose solemnity is but their wit turned inside out to serve the occasion and mood of the day. The raft was a long way out now and far downstream, so far that the distant paddles could be seen striking behind the beat of the song. The young men had turned the bow half-upstream into the current, so that the raft was below them and the side on which the bodies had lain was once more turned toward the shore. Kelderek, gazing, could discern nothing on top of the burning pyre. It had fallen inward at the center, the two glowing halves spread on either side like the wings of a great butterfly. Shardik was no more.

  "Twice," he cried, "I followed you into the Telthearna, Lord Shardik. Now I can follow you no longer."

  Returning at dusk we see the fires on shore.

  If one is yours then you're a lucky man.

  No one ought to be left alone in the dark
.

  If you die, brother, your children shall share my fire.

  The paddlers cast off the rope and turned away, making for the shore downstream and an easy return in slack water under the bank. The raft could no longer be seen, but far off, a point on the surface of the river itself seemed to be burning, emitting smoke and covering the watery expanse with a wide, drifting cloud.

  We gut the fish and the children spit them to cook.

  "Hullo, my son, my tall young zoan tree!

  What have you got to say to your dad tonight?"

  "When I'm a man, I'll paddle a boat like you!"

  The pouring smoke was gone. Trees hid it from view. Kelderek, closing his eyes as he turned away, found his soldier beside him, felt his arm under his shoulders and allowed himself to be lifted almost bodily through the shallows to the shore. Tan-Rion called up his men and turned them about to recover their arms. Then they marched away; and the villagers, too, began to disperse, two matronly women shepherding Radu and the other children with them. Yet several, before they went, came forward--some a little hesitantly, for they stood in awe of Kelderek--to kiss his hands and ask his blessing. Any holy man may have the power to confer good luck, and a chance is not to be missed. He stood hunched and silent as a heron, but nodded back at them and looked in the eye each one that passed before him--an old man with a withered arm, a tall young fellow who raised his palm to his forehead, a girl who smiled shyly at the priestess standing nearby and gave her the flowers she was carrying. Last of all came a ragged old woman, with a child lying asleep in her arms. Kelderek started and almost backed away but she, showing neither hesitation nor surprise, took his hand in her own, kissed it, spoke a few words with a smile and was gone, hobbling away over the stones.