Story of General Dann and Mara's Daughter, Griot and the Snow Dog

by Doris Lessing

  She wept. Ali, sitting by her, held her and rocked her. She wept herself to sleep and then Ali slept too, holding her, the little thin man with his sad face, and the child, her head by his. Griot went past and smiled, seeing them. It was touching, the trust she had in him, the love he had for her, this man who had lost his children. Then, as the evening shadows deepened, Ruff appeared, padding towards them and, observing them there asleep, sat down on his furry backside, waiting. And then Dann came too, and stood by Ruff, and bent, peering at the girl. The sound Mara seemed to emanate from the air, and he said it again with his lips, not sounding it, ‘Mara.’

  Griot appeared behind Dann, and when Dann did not move, only bent there, staring, he dared to put his hand on Dann’s arm. Dann turned, his fist raised to strike, saw Griot, hesitated, let his arm fall, and without a word went back to his room. Ruff stayed with the sleeping pair and lay down, his muzzle on Tamar’s arm.

  They woke, and Tamar exclaimed it was time for Ruff’s evening walk. Off the pair went, racing about among the old buildings and through the puddles in the courts and then…round a corner sped Tamar and there in front of her was Joss, grinning, arms stretched to catch her…she almost ran into them but turned to run back and Ruff was with her. Black blanket soldiers rushed from the buildings to catch Tamar, catch Ruff, but the girl and the snow dog were too quick for them; they arrived back in safety at the great hall where Griot heard the news that Joss was in the Centre with equanimity.

  ‘Then, Tamar, you must exercise the snow dog only out on the square.’

  ‘But Joss is here, in the Centre.’

  ‘More than Joss, I think. A good few of his followers are hiding in the nooks and corners of the Centre. No, don’t you worry. It’s a good thing. We are feeding them poppy, we give them all they ask for, and they’ll be fit for nothing. But you, Tamar, you must have your eyes open every moment, all the time. And you too, Ruff,’ Griot said to the dog, as a bit of a joke, but Ruff seemed to understand, and barked and wagged his tail.

  ‘When are we going to leave, when?’ begged Tamar.

  ‘Believe me, it will be soon,’ said Griot.

  He ordered soldiers to make a double line of defence, shoulder to shoulder, looking in, looking out, defending that part of the Centre used by the red blankets. Next morning Tamar and her snow dog were playing and racing on the drill square. Soldiers watched the two, the girl and her playmate, and thought of their lost families. Dann watched from his windows. Griot told him that even if he was not well completely in fourteen days he must face up to leaving. They would go when the moon was dark, through the marshes. Meanwhile Dann must not go past the lines of soldiers.

  ‘I’m not leaving until we’ve got everything we can from the secret room.’

  The next thing was that a soldier came from sentry duty on the outside road to report that a man wearing the black blanket said he was Dann’s friend; he was Daulis. As he entered, Daulis handed his black blanket to a guard and said, ‘I am sure this will come in useful.’

  He was outside Dann’s quarters when Tamar rushed up, ‘Daulis, Daulis,’ but he went in, the snow dog with him.

  ‘Daulis,’ cried Tamar. ‘Daulis is my friend, too.’

  Growing up, the motherless girl had had four good friends—her father, Daulis, Leta and Donna, who stood between her and Kira’s malice. Her father had left her, but here was Daulis. She flung herself down on the cushions, ready to dissolve into tears. But then she leaped up and ran out, and in a moment returned wearing her shadow dress, which Daulis would recognise. He would be pleased…She went floating up and down the long hall between the working scribes, singing, ‘Daulis, my Daulis.’

  Inside, Daulis had found Dann face down, asleep. Daulis bent to put his hand on Dann’s shoulder but jumped back to avoid Dann’s leap up, knife in hand.

  ‘Oh, Daulis,’ said Dann. ‘I wondered when you’d come to join us.’ And he sank down, the snow dog beside him.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Dann?’

  ‘I’m no good,’ said Dann. ‘Inside here are two people and one of them is out to destroy me.’

  ‘Leta told me you were ill.’

  ‘And how is Leta? Joss told us she had chosen to go back to her told trade.’

  ‘She didn’t choose. She was forced. No, I’m not saying she doesn’t do it well.’ And now he laughed, unpleasantly, and for the flicker of a moment another Daulis looked through his eyes. Then he was himself again; that is, the Daulis who would have hated the one who had so briefly appeared—if he had caught sight of him. ‘We have to remember she was a child when she was taken to the whorehouse.’ He handed Dann a packet. ‘She sent you this. She told me to tell you that these are strong. Strong herbs. They will cure you if you want to be cured. That was her message, Dann.’

  ‘A very clever woman,’ said Dann.

  ‘Ali will know how to use these herbs, Leta says. Yes, we know about Ali.’

  ‘Your spies?’ said Dann.

  ‘And you know all about us.’

  ‘So you know that Joss and some of his men are already in the further parts of the Centre. But did you know that they are drunk and mad with poppy every night?’

  ‘No, we didn’t know about the poppy.’

  ‘And so now, you can come with us when we go into Tundra?’

  ‘I’m going back to Bilma.’

  ‘Well, Councillor Daulis, will Bilma be pleased to see you?’

  ‘Some will be pleased. There is civil war.’

  ‘And where isn’t there civil war, where, Daulis?’

  ‘Sometimes I think that there’s a star up there that loves war and killing—that’s what the soothsayers from the River Towns say.’

  ‘So,’ said Dann, ‘then it’s not our fault. It’s the star. Well, we can’t do anything about that, can we, a death-hungry star?’

  ‘We can make sure we win the wars,’ said Daulis. He got up. ‘And now I’m going to beg some rations. I’m off.’

  ‘Goodbye, then,’ said Dann.

  ‘Goodbye, Dann.’

  ‘Daulis, have you ever thought how many people are in your life, for life and death, and then they’re off and you never see them again?’

  ‘I’ll come and visit you in Tundra.’

  ‘And perhaps I’ll visit you in Bilma.’

  ‘Goodbye. I’ll never forget how you nursed me, at that inn where we were all so sick. I owe you my life, Dann.’ He went out.

  Daulis emerged into the great hall and in the spaces between the working scribes flitted or danced or whirled—what? A great moth? A bird? Something shadowy, and then as light fell on it from the roof openings a black and white thing, and then a creamy whirl of light—Tamar, dancing her delight at his coming. She rushed up to him, he caught her and knelt to hold her.

  ‘Tamar, it is so good to see you.’

  She was bubbling with excitement. He could feel the drumming of her heart. He let her go and went with her to the piled cushions.

  ‘Let me look at you. Tamar, you are so like your mother. And look how you have grown and it hasn’t been all that long since you left us.’

  ‘Daulis, are you going to stay with us now, are you, please do, did you know my father left here, Shabis left me here, Daulis?’

  ‘Yes, I know. And haven’t you heard? Your father sent a message saying he had got halfway, and he is safe.’

  ‘Why did you get the message but we didn’t?’

  ‘Messengers get lost, or…that is why he sent two, one to us at the Farm and one to you.’

  ‘But my father is safe?’

  ‘So far, he is safe.’

  He could not stop looking at the lovely child who knelt before him in her magical frock that changed its colours, shadow to light, black to gold, yellow to brown. ‘How that thing you are wearing does take me back, Tamar. I can see her now, your mother, flitting along in it, now you’d see her, now she’d gone. But here you are. I do miss you so.’

  ‘And so no one is left now at the Farm. Only
Leta. And Donna?’ Clearly Kira and Kira’s daughter did not count in this reckoning.

  ‘Yes, only Leta,’ said Daulis gravely, meeting her shamed, prim little gaze. ‘Yes—but remember, it isn’t what she chose to do.’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll come here to live with us.’

  ‘I’m sure she wants to.’

  ‘And you’ll be with us.’

  ‘Tamar, I have to go to my home. I’m needed there.’

  ‘But I want you, Daulis. My father’s gone…and Dann…Dann is…’

  ‘Yes, I know. Dann is sick. But I’ve just been with him, and he is the old Dann still.’

  She leaped up, scattering tears, singing, ‘Daulis, Daulis, Daulis,’ whirling and circling, because she was crying and didn’t want him to see these little girl’s tears. She danced on, while he stood, and turned to go, and left, as from Dann’s room came Ruff’s voice. He was barking. ‘My Ruff and my Dann,’ she sang. As if the ban on her going into Dann’s room had never been, she rushed to his door and flung it open, just as Ali, who had been on watch, ran to stop her. But she was in, dancing, in Dann’s room. Dann rose from his bed and stared, then advanced at her, fist up, and in it, a knife.

  ‘Go away,’ he shouted at her. ‘Leave me alone. You never leave me alone, you…’

  And now there was a howl from Ruff. This time he didn’t leap to catch Dann’s arm and bring it down, he stood on his hindlegs, put his great paws on Dann’s chest and fell on Dann as Dann fell back. Tamar stood there, her mouth a tragic ‘O’ of horror.

  Ali came forward, pulled Tamar away, and knelt by the two, Dann with Ruff still on top of him. ‘Ruff, Ruff, good dog,’ said Ali. ‘It’s all right.’ Dann was trying to break free of the animal’s weight, but Ruff did not move. He lay panting, then whimpered, and at last crept off Dann. Still crawling he went to a wall where he lay near a guard, who was only just recovering himself, so quickly had events gone. Ruff was in distress. He coughed and panted.

  Griot came in and stood staring.

  Dann was sitting on his bed, his head in his hands.

  Tamar ran to the snow dog. ‘Ali, Ali, Ruff’s sick.’

  Griot picked up the knife, lying on the floor, wiped it, and not knowing what to do with it, laid it on a shelf. Dann watched him from between his fingers.

  Now, Ali was lying beside the snow dog, his ear on his chest. After a moment he got up and squatted there, stroking Ruff. ‘Good dog, Ruff, good dog.’

  Tamar, in her scrap of a shadow dress, sat weeping by the animal.

  Ali said, ‘This animal’s heart is not good. He is very ill.’

  Now he said, looking with severity at Tamar and at Dann, ‘Ruff must belong to one of you, not both. He must be Tamar’s dog or Dann’s dog. You are asking too much, too much. Now let him rest. I’ll fetch medicine.’ He went out, running.

  Dann said to Tamar, who sat there, her hand on Ruff, ‘Tamar, don’t be afraid, he’s gone.’

  ‘Who’s gone? Who? Daulis? I know Daulis has gone.’

  ‘No, not Daulis. The Other One.’

  ‘Who is the other one?’ And she sat trembling, trying to steady herself.

  ‘The Other One is a very bad man. Griot knows him,’ said Dann.

  Ali returned, running. Now he made Ruff open his mouth and he poured in some medicine. He stood up and said severely to Dann and to Tamar, ‘Please, if you love this animal, then be kind.’

  Dann said, ‘When I took Ruff out of the marsh—he was just a little pup then—he was nearly dead. I thought he was dead. Perhaps his heart was damaged then.’

  ‘This animal’s heart has been broken every day,’ said Ali, ‘with you two, pulling him different ways.’

  Ruff was trembling and his claws rattled on the reed flooring. He seemed to want to be sick. He retched and coughed, and whined and shivered.

  ‘Poor lovely Ruff,’ whispered Tamar.

  ‘I’ll take him for a while,’ said Ali. ‘I’ll have him in my room and look after him. He doesn’t have to love me or care about me.’

  Ali and Griot conferred, and Griot went out. Ali took one of Dann’s rugs and covered the snow dog.

  Now Tamar asked Dann, ‘If you loved my mother, why do you want to kill her?’

  Dann shut his eyes, shook his head, could not answer.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Tamar.

  Dann shook his head.

  Griot came back with two soldiers and a board. Between them they lifted the heavy, inert animal on to the board and carried him out. Tamar was going to follow but Ali said, ‘No, no, let the poor animal be alone for a while. He can lie in the dark and rest. Don’t worry, I’ll make him better. And he’ll get well—if he doesn’t have to choose between two people he loves.’

  He went out. Griot stayed.

  Dann sat trembling, like Ruff; his face seemed to have sunk into itself, and his eyes were dark and desolate. Tamar crept closer to him, close, and then, as she got within reach, his arms went out and he clutched her to him. The two of them, the man and the girl kneeling by him, were close and wept together.

  Griot, standing there, watched and thought that if his own heart was cold stone then perhaps he had the best of it.

  Dann lifted his head from Tamar and said, ‘Griot, you have only one idea, to take me at the head of your armies into Tundra. Aren’t you ever afraid that The Other One might take over and spoil your clever plans?’

  Griot thought this out, and then said, ‘No, he didn’t get very far this time, did he?’

  ‘Suppose I don’t always have Ruff beside me to keep me in order?’

  At this Tamar cried out, ‘No, no,’ and tears threatened again.

  But Dann said, ‘Hush, Tamar.’ And to Griot, ‘But I’ll always have you, is that it?’

  ‘I hope you will,’ said Griot.

  ‘I hope so too,’ said Dann. And there was no mockery in it, Griot thought.

  Dann carefully stood up. ‘Griot, before we leave this place there is just one thing we have to do. No, don’t worry, it won’t take long. We’ll be in time for your new moon deadline.’

  Griot still stood there, on guard, although the two soldiers were in their places, waiting and watching. He was not afraid for Tamar, now, but he was for Dann, who was so thin and ill.

  Dann asked him to go and find out if the snow dog was recovering. Ali called out from his room that Ruff was asleep and would recover. Griot returned with this news and Tamar whispered to Dann, ‘I think you must have Ruff. He’s your snow dog. You rescued him from the marsh.’

  ‘No, you must have him. I’ll give him to you. Poor child, poor Tamar, your father’s gone and your Uncle Dann has turned out such a disappointment.’ And they hugged and reassured each other, and wept. And Griot watched.

  When they emerged from Dann’s room Daulis had left a message that he would tell them when he had reached Bilma, and Ali had sent a message that he was staying with Ruff, who had been given a strong soporific. Ali would stay with him, or make sure he was never left alone.

  Now Dann ordered a parade of soldiers in the square. There were fewer than last time, so many had left already.

  Dann stood there before them, this time alone, without Tamar, and said that they would have heard he had been ill again. Yes, it was poppy that had set it off, he thought, but he had taken very little. He hoped that they had the sense to leave poppy to the black blankets. They laughed.

  Griot watched from a window and thought that he would never understand it. Those people out there loved Dann. The General might look like some wretch of a refugee who hadn’t eaten for days, he was thin and feeble, but something shone from him. Griot saw there something fine and strong. Dredged from long-ago memories, perhaps not even his, or from old tales, a word came floating—noble. There was something noble in that poor sick creature out there. And what did it mean, saying that? Griot didn’t know. He felt, in spite of everything, that he would die for Dann. And out there in the square they were cheering him. ‘I don’t understand it, but I a
m relying on it,’ Griot thought. Messages were arriving from where his advance troops had reached. The people were waiting for General Dann. ‘They talk about him. Everyone knows about him. They think he’s bringing all kinds of great things from the secret place. And they love the girl too.’

  All along the great hall the tables with their waiting scribes were ready. There was such excitement, such a fever. That bubble of not-glass was going to be broken into. Between the concealed entrance to the secret place and the hall, lines of soldiers stood waiting to hurry the released books and tablets and—whatever was there—to the tables where so many languages were known.

  Dann, with Tamar, and Griot, and Ali, who had left watchers with Ruff, went into the hidden place. Griot had a great hammer, made of stone, and Ali a rock. They stood along the shining wall, looking at the leaves or pages held there, waiting, and at a well in the centre, where books were piled up, once in tidy heaps, but now slipping and sliding down.

  Griot swung his hammer on to the shining wall and it responded with a loud clanging that reverberated and sang. But it held.

  ‘No one has ever dared to do that,’ said Dann.

  Ali hit the wall with his rock. Another singing note.

  The bubble of not-glass stood intact. It had not even shaken, or vibrated.

  ‘A pity we couldn’t use that big machine with the weights,’ said Tamar. ‘I mean, when it was made of iron.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Ali. ‘But it would never get in here, it’s too big.’

  ‘It would be easy to take those great balls off the chains and roll them at the wall,’ said Tamar.

  Ali was impressed: he often was, by Tamar.

  ‘Together,’ said Dann, and Griot and Ali swung their weapons together.

  The sonorous clanging echoed around the room and seemed to want to burst it open.

  They stood looking at their opponent, the glassy square. At its top it disappeared into a shadowy cleft. Ali stood back, ran at the wall, got a foot on it, and reached up: fingers scraped along the cleft, and he jumped down.

  ‘It fits tight into something, but it’s not rock,’ he said.

  ‘This thing has been here for so long, and it knows how to keep itself safe,’ said Dann. ‘What’s under here?’