‘There goes that crane again,’ I said. ‘Look, it’s flying up the mill stream and, wait! – yes – it’s perched on the roof of the Nonsense House. What does that mean?’
The Interpreter’s face was grey with alarm. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!’ he said, bowing like a marionette. ‘Oh my good Sir, I hope that the Goddess’s heart shall prove to be merciful!’
I tried to find out what all the fuss was about, but he grew incoherent in his distress, and when we reached the bridge he sat on the parapet with his head buried in his hands.
‘Can I help you up the hill with the yoke?’ I asked. He only stared back at me miserably, as though he had never seen me before in his life, so I said goodbye and returned to the Magic House, where the servants brought me a solitary lunch of bread, cheese and salad.
Afterwards I tried to write a poem in my head, but found that without pen and paper I couldn’t get past the first three lines.
Chapter XI
War is Declared
My friends seemed subdued and pale when they came in for the evening-smoke, especially Sapphire, but I put that down to their exhausting studies. I was greeted as warmly as usual.
‘How did you like Sanjon?’ asked See-a-Bird, when the cigarette stubs had been burned.
‘It’s perfect in its way,’ I said, without much enthusiasm. ‘If I were an elderly ex-army officer with an inadequate pension, who never read nor smoked, and avoided the company of other elderly ex-army officers, and set great store on good manners and cheerfulness, and liked his pint of beer in the sun, and made a hobby of studying native customs, I suppose Sanjon would suit me down to the ground… How did your studies go?’
See-a-Bird shook his head resignedly. ‘A small cloud obscured the sun in the middle of the morning and pursued it across the sky all day.’
‘That’s why I failed to compose the last line of my poem,’ added Fig-bread sadly. ‘I’d hoped to be favoured today; it has eluded me Monday after Monday ever since mid-winter.’
‘How long is your poem?’
‘The customary five lines. In these days of peace, we never attempt poems of greater length. It’s about stars seen through the branches of an olive-tree.’
‘None of us made any headway,’ said Starfish. ‘My strings were out of tune; the Goddess withheld her presence.’
Sally frowned. ‘It would have been stupid to expect anything else, with this trouble in the house,’ she said.
‘Is anyone ill?’ I asked.
‘No one is ill, Nimuë be praised!’
‘Servant trouble?’
‘The servants never give trouble: they alleviate it.’
I looked searchingly at their faces. Sally’s was indignant, See-a-Bird’s worried but kindly, Fig-bread’s plainly scared, Starfish’s excited, and Sapphire’s utterly miserable.
I thought it was my duty as a guest to put them at their ease. ‘Well, you are a glum-looking lot,’ I said teasingly. ‘You look like relatives at a French funeral when the lawyer has just broken the news to them that the old girl has left all her money to the young curé with the lisp.’
Nobody so much as smiled politely.
I turned to Sapphire: ‘I suppose, darling, I ought to have brought you a present from Sanjon,’ I said nervously. ‘Some sort of a jewel. There were some really lovely things in the shops. But the Interpreter told me that I’d have to pay with a prayer or a poem and, though I suppose the Goddess would have accepted one in English, I didn’t want to risk offending the priest on duty, so I kept quiet. In any case, I had no idea what you’d like: I might have brought you something altogether unsuitable. You’re all so conventional here in matters of taste.’
‘Not all of us,’ said Sally, carefully not looking at Sapphire.
‘Do, for Heaven’s sake, tell me what’s wrong with everyone this evening,’ I said in exasperation. ‘Has the brutch returned?’
Sally signed to the others that she wanted to make the disclosure herself without interruption; but she had hardly said three words when a servant came in with a verbal message, which he repeated a second time to make sure that he had delivered it correctly. It was a request for them all to ride out at once to the village green at Rabnon and assist at a Council of Five Estates.
‘Whatever’s happening there?’ I asked.
See-a-Bird said: ‘Probably the war about which we were telling you will now break out. Between Rabnon, the next village but one up the railway line, and Zapmor, which lies half-way between us and the sea. I’m afraid we can’t very well refuse to go, though the request comes at a most inconvenient moment. Would you care to come with us?’
So the disclosure was postponed.
They lent me a horse and we set off at once. As we trotted along the tree-shaded bridle path to Rabnon, Starfish cleared his throat and began: ‘Part the First – Rabnon is a gay, red-tiled, green-shuttered, polyandrous village –’
‘Famed for its radishes and its hot blood?’ I put in.
‘Yes, that’s well said – and Zapmor is a dour, slate-roofed, brown-shuttered, monogamous village, famed for its manufacture of square-toed shoes.’
This was his story. Three little boys had run away from their homes at Zapmor one evening about a fortnight before and were found wandering in a wood near Rabnon long after supper-time. When questioned, they said that they did not want to go home for supper.
‘But why not?’ asked the Rabnon woodman who had found them. ‘Are your parents not kind to you?’
They shrugged their shoulders politely.
What was it then?
It appeared that they were always given the same supper of bread and milk and damson jam, and that they were sick to death of it.
Rabnon sent a runner to Zapmor at once with a message that the boys were safe, and would be brought back after they had been fed. They were given tea, cheese-straws, lettuce and radishes, and taken home happy and overfed just before midnight. End of Part the First.
Part the Second. A week later at supper-time the boys turned up again in Rabnon village at the house where they had been fed before. ‘What, damson jam for supper again?’
‘Yes, always the same damson jam.’
‘Do you like it any better now?’
‘It comes out of our ears when we eat.’
Then their parents had not taken the hint! They must now be made to realize the seriousness of the situation. Rabnon brooded over the affair for a week and then called the Council of Five Estates to which, as the nearest neutral magicians, we were now invited.
‘End of Part the Second,’ said Starfish, and fell silent again.
‘If I may be allowed to make a comment,’ I said, ‘without prejudice to the deliberations of the Council, the story sounds a bit fishy to me.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Little boys are conservative about food; if it were a case of a single problem child with a grudge, that would make sense, but three is too many.’
‘As a visitor you won’t be able to bring this up at the Council, I fear.’
‘Perhaps someone else will.’
Part the Third. We found all Rabnon assembled on the green, squatting in a semi-circle in front of the totem-pole, and talking in low voices, the elders seated on rush-bottomed chairs at the back. An austere-looking priest in a white robe, golden sash and scarlet cloak, broke a branch from a tree and walked round the inside of the semi-circle sprinkling everyone with water from a green-glazed pot. When a part-song in honour of the Goddess had been sung, business was opened by the local captain, who pointed with his thumb at a man called Hammer-toes. ‘Speak!’ he said, curtly.
Hammer-toes was the woodman. He sprang to his feet and gave an impassioned account of how he had found the boys wandering in his wood, eating dewberries. He reported the ensuing dialogue dramatically, using deep solemn tones for his own questions and a squeaky little voice for the boys’ guarded answers. His main refrain was ‘damson jam’, more and more passionately repeated.
/> Other witnesses were called in turn, until the whole story had been told. A long silence that followed was broken at last by Open-please, the tall, loose-jointed Rabnon goalkeeper, who said in a ruminative voice: ‘Damson jam is good when you eat it two or three evenings of the week. Enthusiasts may even say “four evenings”.’
When this remark had been well pondered, a fat, jolly woman in a partridge-feather hat slapped her thighs decisively and said: ‘It’s a shame when boys have to leave their homes at supper-time to go berrying in the woods; a shame on the whole neighbourhood! Has anything like this ever happened here in Rabnon?’
No answer. Obviously nothing quite like this had ever happened in Rabnon.
Presently an old man called Randy, who looked venerable enough to be an elder but was still the most incorrigible playboy of the village, introduced the topic that nobody had yet ventured to discuss. ‘At Green Hill, in my grandmother’s day, a war was fought for less provocation than this.’
The captain pointed to the Chief Recorder, who rose to give a rapid, passionless summary of the Green Hill War which had been fought because of a howling dog. Randy supplemented this with salacious by-play, greeted by ripples of laughter. The captain then called for order, and pointed to a pretty, pig-tailed girl called Peaches, who rose and said sadly: ‘There’s much danger in war, both for those who declare it and for those on whom it is declared.’
The fat woman with the partridge-feather hat took her up: ‘It’s a worse danger, by far, to let still waters rot.’
‘Personally, rather than cause my parents trouble,’ Peaches continued, ‘I should have been content merely with bread and milk on evenings when I grew tired of damson jam.’
Here Peaches’ mother broke in: ‘You forget, my dear, how difficult it was to feed you as a child. You wouldn’t eat vegetables or fruit or even sweets unless I sat over you with a spoon for hours. You even disliked radishes and cheese-straws.’ There was general laughter, in which Peaches joined. The tension relaxed, the captain sat down and meditatively polished his finger-nails; presently people began to chat about football and skittles. The elders hobbled home.
‘Is that all?’ I asked in disappointment.
‘What more do you want?’ Sally snapped.
‘I expected them to decide whether to declare war or not.’
‘But they did decide.’
‘When?’
‘When Peaches’ mother had spoken.’
‘But there was no show of hands or anything of the sort.’
‘And why should anyone show his hands?’
I explained the system of majority voting in English parish councils.
‘Didn’t you tell us yesterday that in your country hardly one person in five is well enough educated to think sensibly on a political problem? This means that, whenever you take a show of hands, the minority is more likely to be right than the majority? And in any case, I don’t see how a parish council can hope to get any decision properly carried out when the voting shows that it’s not wholeheartedly reached. Just now, if even a single person, for whatever reason, had stood out against Randy’s proposal it would have been dropped at once. We all know that unless a village is unanimous in its declaration of war, it’s beaten before the fighting begins.’
‘But how was the decision taken?’
‘Didn’t you feel it? As soon as they laughed, discussion naturally ended. There was no more to be said. Unless Zapmor owns itself in the wrong the war will start at dawn. We always fight our wars on Tuesdays.’
‘Does it ever happen that one kingdom declares war on another?’ I asked.
‘Certainly not. Only neighbours know each other well enough to go to war. The inhabitants of one kingdom are complete strangers to those of another, and even within a kingdom the neighbourly ties between district and district are not strong enough to allow for warfare on a large scale. It is a pity, because war on a large scale would be great fun.’
Then the captain announced that the formal declaration was to be made the same night. I asked Sapphire whether I might attend the ceremony. I wanted to get away from the tense and uncomfortable atmosphere of the sitting-room, and pretended not to notice the obvious reluctance with which she gave me leave.
‘You’ll get very little sleep if you go, unless you’re prepared to miss the opening stage of the war,’ she said.
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to see it through from beginning to end.’
When Starfish volunteered to come with me, the others rode home. I sounded him about the trouble, but he said that his lips were sealed. All I gathered was that it concerned Sapphire. Well, if so, I preferred to hear her account before Sally said her piece.
After about half an hour’s preparation, the fighting men of Rabnon, headed by the captain, the football team, the barber, and various other people of importance in the village, marched off in single file towards Zapmor, with banners and pennants flying. Every fifth man carried a lighted torch and all wore their gala-clothes of slashed silk. A bugle band played a familiar march; I forget its name, but the words that go with it in our epoch are:
Here comes the Boys’ Brigade,
All smothered in marmalade,
With a tuppenny-ha’penny pill-box
And a yard-and-a-half of braid.
Pum! Pum! Pum!
Pum! Pum! Pum!
There was a great deal of shouting, cheering and good-natured banter, at which the village priest who brought up the rear of the procession smiled absently, crossing himself every now and then. Starfish and I walked our horses behind at a discreet distance.
When, half an hour later, we halted at the Zapmor border, Rabnon began to bang drums and blow conches, until the fighting men of Zapmor, who had been warned what to expect, came marching up to meet them, in gala-clothes of black velvet. The rival priests advanced towards each other, kissed and exchanged gifts – a statuette of the Goddess with a radish clasped in both hands against one of the Goddess bending down to admire her square-toed black shoes – while a hymn of universal friendship was sung in unison by both villages.
The Zapmor barber – the barbers were also the village spokesmen – then inquired politely: ‘Why have you brought drums and conches to this border, dear radish-growing friends?’
‘Kind shoemakers,’ the Rabnon barber answered, ‘the conches are blown to ask a question to which, of course, you need not reply: “Is damson jam still pleasant to eat on the seventh evening of seven?”’
‘This is a question that we are proud to answer. Its taste grows upon the eater: damson jam is better even on the forty-ninth evening of forty-nine.’
‘But three little boys of your village do not seem to be of that opinion.’
‘They were attracted by the reputation of your radishes and cheese-straws. When they returned, we feared that they might leave us altogether, seduced from our austere village custom by your delicate living. We tried to persuade them that damson jam is the best of all, and that the more one eats it, the sharper grows one’s appetite for it.’
‘But did you succeed in this?’
‘We have not yet given up hope. A custom of ancient standing cannot be lightly broken.’
‘But is it not a somewhat loveless custom?’
‘We cannot possibly accept that view. Zapmor is a nest of constant and enduring love.’
There was no more to be said. As soon as it was clear that Zapmor stood firm, the Rabnon priest returned the gift of friendship with the formula: ‘Brother, at daybreak there will be war between your village and ours. Guard your bridges and your cross-roads, and keep your children safely at the upper windows of your houses.’
The rival captains now discussed the limits of the fighting, what orchards and fields were out of bounds for agricultural reasons and how long a truce was to be observed at midday and at the hour of afternoon prayer. They also decided at what commanding points the district recorders should be stationed, and how many magicians would be needed to part combatants who we
re carried away by the excitement of the battle.
As soon as all this had been amicably settled, the Rabnon conches blared again, but no answering blare came from Zapmor; the Rabnon men performed a wild war dance, brandishing imaginary weapons and making hideous grimaces at their opponents, who saluted nonchalantly, turned their backs and stalked away.
When I got home at about half-past-eleven there was nobody in the sitting-room. I found Sapphire in the bedroom, seated swollen-eyed and miserable in an arm-chair.
‘Sapphire! My poor darling!’
‘It’s a blessing to have you back,’ she said. ‘I did so badly want to talk to you, but you wouldn’t take my hint. This has been a horrible day for me – the worst of my whole life.’
‘What on earth happened?’ I asked. ‘You haven’t quarrelled with Sally?’
‘Of course not. We never quarrel here. But just after you went off to Sanjon I asked her if she could explain the midnight haunting in our bedroom, and she said that she knew nothing about your Antonia but that she wasn’t surprised if queer things were happening; and she asked me whether I hadn’t been rather rash to admit so crude a person as yourself to my bed. “Wouldn’t you have done the same if he had said he loved you?” I asked her. She flushed, but I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings any more than she meant to hurt mine.’
‘I’m sure of it, beautiful. I can’t imagine you being catty – only as saying things in perfect innocence that would raise blisters on the most leathery face. What happened then?’
‘She asked whether she might divine for trouble before we went off to our studies; and of course, I said yes, though really I should have done the divining myself, since it was in my own bedroom. So she put on her witch robe and fetched a blackthorn trouble-diviner from the herbary and peeled it. Then she came in and balanced it on her forefinger and said the necessary prayers. Presently it began to revolve. It revolved three times and when it came to rest the thin end pointed at that cupboard in the wall, just above your head. That’s where I lock up my most private possessions: my crystal ball, my silver plates, my jewel of the month and the nine secret objects given me at my initiation. I said: “Sally, quick, give the thing to me!” not believing my eyes. She gave it to me with a curious look on her face. I repeated the prayers and when I put the diviner on my forefinger it revolved at once and pointed at the cupboard again. She asked: “What’s in there, Sapphire? Do you know?” And I told her: “Oh, only my silver plates and my sacred things.” “Well,” she said, “if there’s trouble in that cupboard, it’s there with your connivance. There’s only one key and you wear it around your neck.”’
Seven Days in New Crete (Penguin Modern Classics) Page 13