The Chalk Giants (16 page)

Cha’Acta was warned of her approach by the horns and thudding drums. He came to the village gates to see for himself, while Mata’s folk lined the stockade walls with their spears, biting their beards uncertainly. It was Magan the headman who first recognized his daughter; he rushed to greet her rejoicing, amazed at her return from the dead. The gates were swung wide, the company tramped through; and there was a time of great rejoicing. For the Corn Bride was reborn; the Gods could smile again on the village in the steep chalk pass.

For a time Cha’Acta and his priests held aloof, huddling in the Council Lodge talking and conspiring; till black looks from the villagers, and a plainer hint from Magan, forced the issue. The High Priest entered the hut where Mata was lodged suspiciously enough, leaving a handful of armed followers at the door; but she ran to him with cries of joy. She brought him beer, serving him with her own hands; afterwards she knelt before him, begging his forgiveness and calling him her Lord. ‘My eyes were blinded, till I could not see the truth,’ she said. ‘I saw Cha’Acta, but could not see the God; though he blazed from him most splendidly.’ She poured more beer, and more, till his eyes became less narrow; and he unbent toward her fractionally. Across his brow ran a deep diagonal scar, the mark she had given him with the mask; she touched it, tenderly, and smiled. ‘For this I was punished, and justly so,’ she said. She showed him the white half-moon on her chin, where Gohm’s boot had torn the lip away, the crossing weals on legs and thighs from her wild flight through the wood. ‘Also,’ she said, lifting her kilt still further, ‘see how I have grown, Cha’Acta my priest. Now the God has ordered that I return, to love you better than before.’ Then despite himself the manhood in Cha’Acta rose, so that he took her several times that very night, finding her sweet beyond all normal experience. ‘The God first entered me when I worked at cutting his reeds,’ she said later. ‘Now he comes to me again, in you. Let it be so forever, Lord.’

The trees blazed, slowly shed their leaves. For a time the air remained warm; but when the first frosts lay on the ground, whitening the long slopes of the fields, news came that disturbed the new-found tranquillity of the tribe. Strangers appeared in the valley, refugees from the unknown lands that stretched beyond the Great Heath. They brought with them wild tales of a new people, a race of warriors who lived not by the peaceful tilling of the soil but by plunder, by fire and the sword. Some said they came from the Middle Sea, some from Hell itself, braving the roughest seas in their fast, long ships. Each warrior, it seemed, was a King in his own right, claiming kinship with certain Gods; wild Gods, rough and bloody and dark, whose very names sent thrills of fear through the storytellers as they uttered them. There were tales of whole villages destroyed, populations wiped out; for the invaders preyed on the land like an insect swarm, leaving it bare and ruined behind them. The elders shook their heads over the stories. Nothing like them had ever come their way; but there seemed little to be done, and with the first real snow the trickle of refugees stopped. For a time, nothing more was heard.

Mata paid little attention to the tales. Her power with the people had increased; for her wanderings had taught her very well how to win respect. Always now she was at Cha’Acta’s side; and always behind her stood the great Corn Lord, warming her with his presence. Children and babes in arms were brought to her; for it was believed magic dwelt in her touch, the young ones she blessed would grow up healthy and strong. Yet always she was careful to defer to Cha’Acta, so the Chief Priest had little cause for complaint. Each night he came to her in the God House; for the child who had once proved such an able pupil was now a willing mistress. So much was she to his liking that when the seed time was nearly due again and the ploughs went out to scratch the thin-soiled fields, the question of a new Bride for the God had not been raised.

It was Cha’Acta who broached the matter, late one night. The sea mist lay cold and clammy on the hill, eclipsing the torches on the village watchtowers, swirling round the fire that burned in the great hut. Mata heard him for a while; then rose impatiently, flicking a heavy shawl across her shoulders, and walked to the hut door. She stood staring into the void, feeling the cold move on stomach and thighs. After a while she spoke.

‘Where will the God find a Bride to equal what he loses?’ she asked amusedly. ‘Can another do the Magic Thing, that pleases Cha’Acta so much? Will another be loving, and as warm? Will the barley spring better for her than me?’

The High Priest waited, brooding; for he knew her power. Also, he was loth to lose her. He made no answer; and she turned back, walked swaying toward him, her eyes dark and huge. ‘Also,’ she said, ‘what would become of me? Would I be found too one day face down in a pool, with the brook fish nibbling me?’

He stirred impatiently. ‘Let us have no more of this,’ he said. ‘For all your beauty you are still a child, Mata. You do not understand all Mysteries.’

She felt the God inside her, giving her strength. She kicked the fire barefooted, sending up a shower of sparks. ‘This I understand,’ she said. ‘That there are Mysteries best not told, Cha’Acta priest; or spears would be raised, and sacred blood would surely make them unclean.’

Cha’Acta rose, eyes smouldering with rage. He moved toward her, lifting his hands; but she stood her ground, flung the shawl back and laughed. ‘Look, Cha’Acta,’ she said. ‘Look before you strike, and see the Magic Thing.’

He stared for a time wild-eyed. So easy now to strangle her and cut, show what was left for the work of some wild beast...

Sweat stood on his forehead; then he fell back, rocking and groaning. ‘Do not taunt me, Mata,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I mean no harm to you.’

His chance was gone; and they both knew it. She stood a moment longer, smiling down; then dropped to her knees beside him. He gripped her, gasping; and she was very loving to him. They lay all night, in the close light of the fire, and Mata gave him no rest; till toward dawn he slept like one of the dead. She roused him in due course, feeding him broth and beer; afterwards she dressed, came and sat obediently at his feet. ‘My Lord,’ she said, ‘tell me now of these thoughts that I am to go, and another take my place.’

He shook his head, eyes hooded. ‘No one will take your place, Mata,’ he said. ‘You know that well enough.’

She pursued him, gently. ‘But, Lord, the people will wish it’

He said, ‘The people can be swayed.’

‘I would not bring grief to my Lord Cha’Acta.’

He said hopelessly, ‘You can persuade them, Mata. If no other.’

She stared up under her brows, eyes luminous. ‘Then do you give me leave?’

He banged his fists on his knees, pressed them to his forehead. ‘Do what you will,’ he said. ‘Take what you wish, speak as the Lord moves you; but for my sake, stay his Bride.’

She sat back, clapping her hands delightedly. ‘Then let Cha’Acta too swear his constancy,’ she said. ‘By the great God, who stands at his shoulder as he stands at mine. For I have seen him many times, my Lord; his prick is long as a rush bundle, and as hard and green.’

He groaned again at that; for she had a way of rousing him with words even when her body was quiet. ‘I swear,’ he said finally. ‘In the God’s own house, where he must surely hear.’

So a pact was made between them; and Cha’Acta found he could not break the invisible bonds with which she had tied him.

By early summer, the people had begun to murmur openly; for the planted corn was springing and still no Procession had been called, no new Bride chosen for the God. Mata herself stilled them, speaking from the step of the Council Lodge; an unheard-of thing for a girl or woman to do. ‘Now I tell you,’ she said, ‘the Procession will take place, as always before. Also the God, speaking through Cha’Acta, has let his choice be known. It is this; that I, and no other, will lead his priests, his Bride of a second summer.’

There were shocked mutterings at that, and some fists were shaken. She quelled the disturbance, instantly. ‘Listen to me again,’ she said. She raised her voice above the rest. ‘In another place, a man once lifted his hand to me; the flesh dropped very quickly from his bones. My Lord, who is swift to bless, is swifter yet to punish; for his voice is the rolling thunder of heaven, his anger die lightning that splits the stoutest trees.’

The villagers still growled uncertainly. Men stared at each other, gripping the handles of their daggers and pulling at their beards.

‘Now hear another thing,’ said Mata. She spoke more quietly; by degrees, the crowd stilled again. ‘Your grain will sprout higher and stronger than before,’ she said. ‘Your animals will thrive, and you will prosper. No evil shall come in all the season, while I rule the God’s House. And if I lie, I tell you this; you may fling me from the Mound and break my bones.’ She said no more but turned away, pushing impatiently through the crowd. It parted for her, wonderingly; and no man raised his voice when she had gone.

Her words had been bold; but when Cha’Acta taxed her with them she merely smiled. ‘The God spoke truth to me,’ she said serenely. ‘As you will see.’

The summer was such as the valley had never known. The grain stood taller than the oldest villager could remember, waving and golden and rich. No wind or rain came to spoil the harvest, so that the storage pits were filled to their brims and more had to be dug, lined with wickerwork and clay. The cattle and sheep grew fat on the valley pastures, the harvest celebrations were the finest ever known; and after that all made way for Mata as she walked, stepping respectfully clear of her shadow.

To Cha’Acta also it seemed she was possessed. She had taken to sniffing the magic seeds again; she used them constantly, claiming they gave her clearer sight. Often, now, she had visions of the God. Also he came to her more frequently; and once took her in full sight of all the people, so that she lay arching her back and crying out, and spittle bearded her chin. At that even the Chief Priest fled from her, in more than religious awe.

Then more signs of the raiders began to appear.

Once again, bands of wanderers started filtering through the valley. All were ragged; many bore gaping wounds. The villagers fed them from their own supplies, turning troubled eyes toward the north. Some nights now the horizon glowed an angry red, as if whole towns were burning far across the Plain. Once a party under Magan ventured in that direction, several days’ journey; they came back telling of scorched fields, blackened ruins where once had stood peaceful huts. At this Cha’Acta sat in council with the priests and elders of the tribe; a long and solemn council that went on a whole day and night. Mata attended for a time; but the smoke that filled the big Lodge annoyed her, stinging her eyes, while the babble of so many voices confused her brain. She ran away to her own great house on the Mound, lay all night dreaming and watching up at the stars. At dawn she sniffed the Magic Smoke again; and a vision came to her so splendid she ran crying to the village while the sun still stood red on the hills, throwing her long flapping shadow across the grass. The news she told sent men scurrying, uncertainly at first and then more eagerly, toward the Sacred Mound. Today, she proclaimed, the God held open house; and the people trooped after her, not without superstitious shudderings. Cha’Acta, emerging with his followers, found the watchtowers empty, the street deserted save for the witless and the very old; while the crest of the Sacred Mound was black with folk. There was nothing left him but to follow, raging.

The people had gathered in a great half-moon on that side of the Mound that faced the village; the space before the God House was filled by them. Mata herself stood facing them, outlined sharply against the brilliant sky. Beneath her heels, a sheer stone face plunged to the yellow cliff of grass; beyond, tiny and far-off, rose the russet heads of the trees that lined the brook.

Cha’Acta, panting up the last incline at the head of his troupe, was in time to catch her final words.

‘And so by this means we shall be saved; for none will dare raise a hand against us, while the God himself watches from the hill and his limbs are scoured and bright. It will be a work like no other in the world. By its aid, and my Lord’s protection, you will become famous, and wealthier than before; for men of other tribes will surely journey many days to see.’

Cha’Acta had heard more than enough. He marched to the centre of the circle below the wall, holding up his arms for quiet. In his robes of office, blazoned with the Mark of the God, he made an impressive figure. The hubbub that had risen was stilled; Mata alone remained smiling, hands on her hips. She watched indifferently from her wall, the black, long hair flicking across her face.

‘Come down from there,’ said the Chief Priest sharply. ‘And hear me, all you people. This is an evil thing that you have done.’

The villagers buzzed angrily; and he turned, pointing, the sleeve of his robe flapping in the wind. ‘This is no time for toys,’ he said. ‘To the north, not five days’ journey away, are many warriors; more warriors than you or I, any of us, have ever seen. Where they come from, no man can tell; but they bring with them death and fire, and that you know full well, as well as I. Now for a night and a day we have sat in the Council Lodge, debating many things, always with the safety of the people in our hearts. For a time, we were unsure; then there came among us a certain God, who was green and tall...’

That is surely strange,’ piped up an old, grizzled-bearded man. ‘For the God was with his Bride, with Mata here. From her own lips we heard it.’

Cha’Acta had never in his life been contradicted by a commoner; his brow flushed with rage, for a moment he considered striking the other to the ground. He swallowed, and forced himself to remain calm. ‘I am the High Priest of the God,’ he said coldly. ‘You forget your station; thank the God that in his mercy he lets you keep your tongue.’ He raised his arms again. ‘I am your Priest,’ he said. ‘Have I not counselled you wisely, and brought you to prosperity? Is this not true?’