Shimmering Splendor

by Roberta Gellis

  Setting the water bottles safely on the bank in the shade of a large boulder, she set out downstream at a quick pace. She soon noted that the higher land on the opposite side was grazed clean, but brush and brambles grew along the bank close to the water. Thinking that she might be able to shoot one of the creatures who came down to drink, she walked more slowly, watching for a path through the brush that would mark a watering place. Although she passed several spots where the bank was very low, almost flat against the water, there was no indication that any animal had pushed through the brush to drink. However, here and there in the brambles Psyche saw flecks of color.

  Farther down, where the stream was quite shallow but before the ground became truly marshy, lilies grew thickly on both banks. For the moment Psyche dismissed the sheep of the burning fleece from her mind and happily dug lily bulbs to lend a fresh garnish to the next meal. She thought idly as she brushed dirt from the bulbs that a little later in the year she could have gathered berries from the brambles. Her mind checked on the thought. Humans were not alone in their taste for brambleberries; all animals loved them, goats especially, even dogs, cows and sheep…sheep! The flecks of color caught in the brambles might well be bits of fleece.

  Gathering up her bulbs, Psyche hurried back upstream to where the brambles grew thickest and stared across. Yes, here and there were flecks of orange on the thorny green-leafed stems. But were those flecks fleece, or merely a few of last year’s brown leaves turned orange by the sunlight? She peered and peered, pushing her way through the brush on her side of the stream and standing tiptoe to stare across, but she could not satisfy herself about what she was seeing. She edged closer to the water, closer, staring hard first at one spot of color and then at another—and her foot suddenly slipped and she was in the stream.

  The cold shocked her into stillness and then into a consideration of what she had promised Atomos. She had said she would not try to approach the sheep. She knew Atomos assumed that meant she would not cross the stream, but what if there were no sheep across the stream?

  Psyche got back on the bank and stared around at the grazed-over land. There were no sheep. There had been no sheep even at her farthest stop downstream. Then crossing the stream to determine whether the color in the brambles was fleece would not be approaching the sheep. And what if Atomos’s purpose in saying the sheep were so terrible was to keep her from fulfilling her task? She had no proof one way or the other of his truthfulness.

  She laid down her bulbs, removed her boots, and stepped into the water. Wading carefully over the water-smoothed pebbles and rocks, she reached the far shore without getting wet above her knees, and climbed out. She paused only to put her boots back on, then edged her way into the bushes toward a fleck of color. It was fleece! She picked up that fleck and moved carefully to the next little wisp, grateful for her leather traveling clothes, which protected her from the thorns.

  Psyche had no idea how long she had been sidling along, weaving and bending to avoid the worst of the stickers, and plucking here a thread and there a whole patch of wool from the thorns. She had a handful of fleece and was pleased with her acquisition, but she knew it would take far too long to collect a bagful of the stuff in this manner. Her eyes were fixed on the next patch of color, her mind busy with the problem of how to get the sheep through the brambles so they would leave more wool there, when a thin sound, a cross between a baa and a hiss, made her turn hastily.

  Beyond the brambles was a lamb. It was utterly adorable, watching her with the slightly demented look all young creatures have. Psyche smiled. What a dear little thing! She did remember her promise to Atomos, but she had not tried to approach the sheep. An adorable little lamb had approached her. Cooing softly, Psyche surreptitiously stripped a few leaves from the bushes and held out her hand, palm up and open, to show the leaves. The lamb did not run, so Psyche took one slow step toward the creature. What harm could a dear little lamb do her, she thought.

  The lamb, equally tentatively, took a step toward her. That seemed a trifle odd; most lambs or kids either stood their ground or backed away unless they already knew humans, but since the creature was so bold, Psyche took another step. The lamb raised its head. This close, the fleece truly looked as though it were blazing. Even as she had the thought, Psyche became aware that the hand extended toward the lamb felt hot. Could it truly be afire? Momentarily forgetting everything beyond her curiosity, Psyche leaned forward.

  On the instant, the lamb lashed out with a foreleg that ended not in a hoof but in claws that rivaled the panther’s and opened a mouth lined with teeth that would have put an adult wolf to shame. Psyche was so shocked that she only jerked back, but her movement seemed to drive the lamb into a frenzy. It pressed into the brambles baa-hissing at the top of its lungs, so she was forced to thrust out with the javelin to hold it at bay. The point could no more than have pricked it, but it screamed like a stuck pig and went on screaming, all the time lunging forward, snapping and clawing, as Psyche continued to back away as fast as she could.

  Since she dared not turn her head away from the “dear little lamb,” which was threatening to lunge at her and tear her apart the moment it could avoid the point of her javelin, Psyche had no idea how close she was to the river. It was not really difficult to hold off the lamb, but she already heard the louder and deeper bellows of the adult animals coming to succor an infant of the herd. A single quick glance showed her a score or more of the creatures rushing toward her out of what must have been a fold in the ground.

  She pressed backward faster, then gasped with terror as she was caught by a particularly sturdy bush and held fast. With no choice, Psyche struck harder and faster, stabbing the lamb deeply enough to draw blood. Hurt, the creature recoiled, pausing in its efforts to savage her, and she was able to tear herself free of the bush and step sideways and backward again. Even then she knew it was too late. Adult sheep were pushing through the brambles, bellowing and hissing with rage. A sharp thrust at first one, then another, prevented them from coming at her for another moment, and she took two more steps backward. Then two lunged at her at the same time and Psyche jumped back—only to find that there was no ground behind her.

  Psyche was mute with terror as she fell—right into the stream—sending up a huge gush of water. She struggled backward frantically, backstroking with her arms and scrabbling with her feet, splashing more water, as she tried to put some distance between her and her pursuers. She expected any moment one would leap on her and savage her. But though they hissed and bellowed, none attacked, and Psyche thought she heard among the sounds of rage some high cries of pain and fear. Desperately she struggled to a sitting position, pulling herself farther into the stream as she did, but no longer splashing. On the bank the sheep milled, baa-hissing, but none would step into the water and Psyche saw on some of them dark spots and splotches. Had the water quenched the burning?

  As the question rose into her mind, Psyche called herself an idiot for allowing such an idea to divert her from escaping. But when she got to her feet, she realized the question was pertinent. If the water had quenched the wool and the cries she had heard were of pain and fear, she had already escaped. Her panic subsided as she remembered what Atomos had told her; the sheep would not come into the stream after her.

  In reaction, spite and rage shook her. She thought of stooping and sending showers of water at them. Then she felt ashamed. The poor creatures were only acting according to their nature. There was no reason to inflict pain on them or drive them away. As long as she was in the stream or on the other side, they could not hurt her. She had no right to be angry at them. She had not been angry at the panther that had attacked her. Psyche uttered a shaken little laugh. The panther looked what he was; he did not appear deceptively sweet and cuddly.

  All reason to the contrary, Psyche found she could not turn her back on the burning sheep and simply wade across. Since she did not want to fall in again—she had been remarkably lucky not to have hurt herself badly on t
he rocks in the shallow water—she started toward the opposite bank at a diagonal that permitted her to keep the sheep as well as her goal in sight. When she moved, new bellows of rage arose and the animals went forward, too, pacing her. Afraid that what she was doing would make one or more so angry that it would forget how unpleasant water was, Psyche stopped. In looking back and forth to check what the creatures were doing, she caught sight of the brambles through which the sheep had come—and they were thick with fleece.

  Psyche laughed with relief and revelation, which called forth more bellows of rage and a few rushes forward and back, which left more fleece on the bushes and brambles. She took a step and several animals, ignoring the sharp twigs and thorns, pushed ahead, as if she would be forced to come ashore and they intended to intercept her. Psyche laughed again. All she needed to do was to keep them interested and angry and she could have ten bags of burning fleece.

  First she waded a little farther out in the stream to allow a safe distance for the pain of the wetting to cure rage if any sheep were infuriated enough to charge, then she began to walk upstream toward the campsite. By now she was badly chilled from her immersion and she had to move quickly and beat her arms around herself to generate warmth because she was soaked and freezing, but since the gestures seemed to keep the sheep angry and draw them after her, she was satisfied. As she approached an area where woods encroached on the open land, however, the sheep shied away from the shadows cast by taller trees and seemed ready to abandon the chase.

  Psyche was tired herself, but she was sure Atomos would be back in camp by now and furious at her absence. Recalling the bulbs she had dug, she decided to use them as an excuse. She hurried across to the safe bank and ran all the way back—actually it was no great distance; wading in the stream over the uncertain footing had made it seem much farther. Nonetheless, she was winded when she found her cache. Then she plodded back the much longer distance to where she had left the water bottles. She was very weary by the time she trudged back to the camp.

  “Where have you been?” Atomos roared, as soon as he saw her.

  Psyche’s first reaction to the angry question was relief. Apparently the distance and the woods had masked the noise of her confrontation with the monster sheep. “Downstream, nearly to the marsh,” she replied mildly, swallowing her guilt over the lies she was implying and some she might have to tell. “You knew I meant to glean. There was not much, but I dug some lily bulbs for our meal. And…ah…I fell into the stream and lost the javelin I took with me.”

  “Fell into the stream? How?”

  Psyche would have told Teras the truth, endured his scolding, and teased him into laughter over the “dear little lamb.” It caused her nearly physical pain to shrug and utter a false laugh. But she dared not tell Atomos—she dared not. At all costs she must keep him from going downstream and seeing the fleece on the bramblebushes. Even if he only insisted on accompanying her while she gathered it, that would certainly violate the terms of the task Aphrodite had laid upon her. What if he went and gathered it for her? Psyche was still not in the least sure of his purpose. She had the means now to gather that fleece by herself and she would be far better off, she decided, if he knew nothing about it.

  “By carelessness,” she said. “I was right at the edge of the stream and stepped backward—and fell in. I was lucky not to crack my head on a rock. You needn’t tell me how stupid I was. I assure you I will be more careful in the future.”

  “Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously.

  Psyche felt guilty again over what she felt was true caring and at how easily his anxiety had diverted him from asking more embarrassing questions. However, she was too close to her goal to let her feeling for Atomos interfere. She shook her head, saying, “Oh, a bruise here and there. But I am freezing. I must take off these clothes and let them dry.”

  On the words, she put down her burdens, took her blanket from her pack, and went back into the woods a little way to undress, returning wrapped in her cloak and the blanket. By the time she returned, Atomos had a small fire going near which Psyche hung her underclothing. Then she sat down wearily and removed her boots, which she stood by the fire to dry. As she placed them there, she felt a pulse of satisfaction. There could be no question about Atomos accompanying her downstream to look for the sheep until she could wear the boots again. Dry garments could be cobbled together, but not dry boots.

  In fact, the combination of her past sleepless nights and the exhaustion following her adventure saved her from needing to make any excuses at all. She ate her meal, complaining about her bruises—she had begun to feel them as soon as she began to warm up—and then fell asleep. By the time she woke, in the dusk of early evening, it was too late to do any exploring and she accepted Atomos’s statement to that effect with such meek alacrity that he at once became suspicious and warned her against going off alone.

  She laughed and pointed to her still-wet boots, saying she wasn’t going anywhere until they dried. But she realized that knowing her task was almost complete had betrayed her into an unnatural compliance. It was not safe to talk to Atomos; he knew her too well and she wanted far too much to trust him. Suppressing another impulse to confess what she planned, Psyche instead complained that she was still weary and aching and would soon go to sleep.

  Her complaint called forth such attentive tenderness from Atomos that she was hard put, particularly as the increasing darkness hid him from her, to refrain from moving over to him and snuggling down in his arms. In self-defense, she claimed to be hungry again so that he came into the light of the fire to broil more of his catch. When she could see him and not just hear his voice, he did not seem quite so much like Teras.

  After eating, Psyche claimed that the undergarments she had dried were dirty and irritating, which permitted her to unpack in order to take out clean underclothes and stockings—and the bag she needed to fill with wool. She looked at it, shrugged, and deliberately left it out before she dressed herself again in her traveling clothes, which Atomos had dried in the sun and by the fire. These were also stiff, but Psyche said she had nothing else suitable and the well-tanned leather would soon soften.

  Then she turned the talk to how they might obtain fleece from the sheep. To her surprise, Atomos contributed a number of practical ideas to the discussion with enthusiasm—with so much enthusiasm that Psyche felt a false note and her suspicions were again aroused. Unfortunately, the notion that his suggestions were only a device to interfere with her success gave her more pleasure than pain. All she could do when that shameful realization came to her was to claim to be too tired to talk longer, and lie down to sleep.

  In fact, she was not in the least sleepy, although she took care to breathe slowly and even snort a little now and again after she had turned this way and that until she could see a reasonably bright star in a clear patch between the branches of the tree. For a time she kept her eyes closed and listened to Atomos breathing. She knew he was not asleep any more than she, and she thought sadly of the misfortune that had prevented him from coming as a suitor before her father had offended Aphrodite. She had liked him from the first, she thought. She could have been happy with him if she had never met Teras.

  Her head moved impatiently as she tried to bury that dangerous thought and she deliberately turned her mind to how she could collect the wool caught in the brambles. All the grazing animals she knew settled into what shelter they could find at night to protect themselves from the hunters of the dark. She could only hope that the monstrous creatures that wore the burning fleece also did so, that despite their terrible armament, they were not themselves predators. The well-grazed land they inhabited seemed to imply that was true.

  She thought about where to cross the stream and the advantage of starting to collect the wool as far from what seemed to be the natural range of the sheep versus the disadvantage that if she crossed too close to the campsite Atomos might hear her. She thought about whether it would be better to collect where most of the wool had
been torn free, which was nearest where she had encountered the creatures, or farther away, where they would be least likely to sense her. She thought about everything she possibly could—except Atomos—even counting slowly to one hundred again and again, and still the star she watched would not move, the moon would not rise, and Atomos was not asleep.

  At long last, when she thought she would go mad from the strain of keeping her breathing quiet and steady and listening for Atomos’s breathing without thinking about him…much…the breaths that were not hers took on a different rhythm. Holding to the hope that he was dozing on the edge of sleep, Psyche was able to maintain her pretense of that state, and before she lost all patience, the star she had been watching had moved enough to be obscured behind a thick branch. There had been a silvery cast to the highest leaves for some time, which meant that the moon was up.

  Very softly, with long pauses between movements, Psyche rose, reached out for her boots, picked up the bag for the fleece and the javelin she had left lying loose near it, and stole from camp. She had decided on a compromise and crossed the stream at the point she thought was about midway between the forested area the sheep avoided and the place where she had come upon the lamb. She went very slowly, setting her teeth against the cold bite of the water and feeling her way, concerned only that she not step on a stone that would shift or splash.

  Psyche moved equally slowly when she reached the opposite bank, carefully bending each branch of the brush aside rather than pushing her way through by force. She made only one sound before she began gathering her prize: she gasped with relief and pleasure when she saw that the burning fleece glowed in the moonlight. Its color was muted to silver and pale gold, but it could not be mistaken for anything else.

  Her ears straining so hard for baaing or hissing that she thought they would surely grow to twice their size, Psyche picked and pushed flock after flock of the wool into the bag. As the bag grew fuller, she grew less cautious in her movements. Ignoring the prick and scratch of the thorns, she thrust her way through the briars to reach particularly large patches of fleece or areas in which it was thickly caught. Once she set her foot awry and uttered a half-stifled cry. She stiffened into immobility, listening even more intently, but heard no sound that she could associate with the sheep and began to pick with even more frantic haste.