The Chalk Giants (21 page)

Cha’Ensil returned to the God House alone some few days later, and hastened to make obeisance to his mistress; but it seemed his absence had not been too much noticed. He served the Reborn well in the weeks that followed, and was unfailing in his courtesy to Altrin when chance placed the Beautiful One in his path; for his heart was more at rest.

Two months passed, and a third; the green of summer was changing to flaunting gold when he once more rode from the Sacred Mound. He headed south, to a village well enough known to him. Here, on a promontory overlooking the sparkling sweep of the sea, stood just such a Hall as the one he had quitted. He presented himself at the stockade, and was courteously received. Later he was conducted by tortuous paths to a tiny bay, closed on either side by headlands of tumbled rock. A dozen children played in the crash and surge of the water, watched over by a priest and a seamed-faced woman who was their instructress in the Mysteries. A purse changed hands; and the woman called, shrilly.

Cha’Ensil peered, shading his eyes. A lithe, brown-skinned girl waded from the water; she stood before him boldly, wearing neither cloth nor band, returning his scrutiny with a slow smile. He spoke, uncertainly; for answer she knelt before him, lowering her head as the ritual dictates.

He nodded, well pleased. ‘You have worked excellently, Cha’Ilgo,’ he said. ‘The God defend and prosper you.’ Then to the woman, ‘See she is dressed, and readied for a journey. I leave inside the hour.’

That day a new priestess arrived at the Hall of the Reborn; and Cha’Ensil, whose office it was, conducted her to the Presence with pride. Altrin, seated grandly to one side, did not speak; but his eyes followed the girl as she moved through the forms of greeting and Cha’Ensil, watching sidelong, saw his brows furrow into a frown.

The opportunity for which the Chief Priest had waited was not long in coming. He was sent for, brusquely enough; a few minutes later, his face composed, he stooped into the presence of Altrin.

The Beautiful One, it seemed, was more than a little drunk. He eyed Cha’Ensil balefully before he spoke; then he said roughly, ‘Who is she, husbandman?’

Cha’Ensil smiled soothingly. ‘To whom,’ he said, ‘does my Lord refer?’

The other swore, reaching for the wine bowl. Its contents spilled; the Chief Priest hastened to assist him. The cup was recharged; Altrin, flushed, sat back and belched. He said again, ‘Who is she?’

Cha’Ensil smiled once more. ‘Some child of a chalk hill farmer,’ he said. ‘An apt pupil, as I have been told; she will no doubt prove an asset to the House.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Her name is Dareen,’ said the Chief Priest steadily. ‘The daughter of T’Sagro. Your father’s neighbour, Prince.’

The other stared. He said huskily, ‘How can this be?’

‘I found her, in a certain place,’ said Cha’Ensil. ‘I freed her, thinking it would be your will.’ He extended his arms. ‘The enmity between us is ended,’ he said. ‘Let her happiness be my peace-gift to you, Lord.’

Altrin rose, his brows contracted to a scowl. He said, ‘Bring her to me.’

Cha’Ensil lowered his eyes. ‘Sir, it is hardly wise ...’

‘Bring her . . . !’

The other bowed. He said, ‘It shall be as my Lord desires.’

The night was windy; the growing complex of wooden buildings groaned and shifted, alive with creaks and rustlings. Torches burned in sconces; by their light the pair negotiated a corridor hewn partly from the chalk, tapped at a door. A muffled answer: and the Chief Priest raised the latch, propelling the girl gently forward. He said, ‘My Lord, the priestess Dareen.’ He closed the door, waited a moment head cocked; then padded softly away.

She faced him across the room. She said in a low voice, ‘Why did you send for me?’

He moved forward, seemingly dazed. He said, ‘Dareen?’ He reached to part the cloak she wore; and she knocked his arm away. She said furiously,
‘Don’t touch me.’

He flushed at that, the wine buzzing in his brain. He said thickly, ‘I touch whom I please. I command whom I please, I am the God.’

She stared, open-mouthed; then she began to laugh. ‘You?’ she said. ‘You, a God? Who herded sheep on the hillside, and dared not lift eyes to me in the street? Now... a God ... forgive me, my Lord Sheepdrover. This is too sudden ...’

He glared at her. He said, ‘I did not choose to raise my eyes to you. You were a child.’

She snarled at him.
‘You did not choose.
..’ She swallowed, clenching her fists. ‘Day after day I walked to where you lay,’ she said. ‘And day after day you watched me, like a silly little boy, and played with yourself in the grass because you were afraid. I humbled myself, in sight of you; because I wanted you, I wanted you to come and take me. But you never came. You never came because you dared not. Now leave me in peace. You are no man for me.’

He grabbed the cloak, wrenched. Beneath, she wore the green and gold of a priestess. Her waist was cinched by a glittering belt; her breasts jutted boldly at the thin cloth of her tunic. He gripped her; and she swung her hand flat-palmed. The slap rang in the little chamber; he doubled his fist, eyes swimming, and she staggered. Silence fell; in the quiet she probed at a wobbling tooth, rubbed her lips, stared at the smudge of red on the back of her hand. Then her bruised mouth smiled. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Now I suppose you will beat me. Perhaps you will kill me. How very brave that would be.’ She circled, staring. ‘Now you are a God,’ she said. ‘What happened to me, when you became a God? And Tamlin, and Sirri, and Merri, and all the others? Do you know?’ Her eyes blazed at him. ‘Tamlin died on a treadmill,’ she said. ‘Sirri was sold to the King of the Horsemen, who beat her till he broke her back. Merri has the sickness the Midsea people bring. I went to a whorehouse; while a certain God, whose name we will not speak, dressed in silk and called himself a man.’ She wiped her mouth again. ‘Well, go on,’ she said. ‘Beat me; or call your priests to do it for you. Then you can lie in peace, with your fat old woman who doesn’t have a face ...’

She got no further. His hands went to her throat; she tore an arm free, struck at him again. A wresting then her mouth was on his. She was groping for him, pulling and wrenching at his cloth.

Much later, when all was over, he began to cry. She cradled him then in the dark, pressing his mouth to her breast, calling him by a name his mother used when he was a tiny child.

He woke heavy with sleep, and she had rolled from him. He groped for her, needing her warmth after the many years. She nuzzled him, smiling and stroking; and the door of the chamber swung slowly inward.

He sat up, appalled. He saw the mast of glittering blue, the Chief Priest at her side. He sprang forward with a shout; but he was too late. The door banged shut; he wrenched it back, but the corridor beyond was empty. The Reborn and her minister were gone.

The light grew, across the Heath. Above him the high hill and its buildings lay deserted; and a drizzle was falling, drifting from the dull void of the sky.

He moved with a desperate urgency, stooping low, fingers clutched round the wrist of the frightened girl. The stockade was before him, and the high lashed gates. He climbed, scrambling, reached back to her. Her skirt tore; she landed beside him with a thud, glared back and up. He took her wrist again, slithering on the steep grass of the ditch, pushing aside the soaked branches of trees.

From a chamber high on the Mound, the Reborn stared down. No quiver, no movement betrayed her breathing; beside her, Cha’Ensil’s face was set like stone. The fugitives vanished, reappeared on the farther slope. The woman stiffened; and the priest turned to her, head bowed. He said, ‘My Lady?’

She turned away, hands to the feathered mask. She said, ‘He must come back, Cha’Ensil.’

He waited; and her shoulders shook. He said gently, ‘And if he will not?’

The muffled words seemed dragged from her. She said, ’Then none will sit beside me. None must know our secrets, priest. Or what power we have, is gone ...’ She waited then; till the latch clicked, the sound of his footsteps died. She dropped to her knees, crept to the corner of the little room. She pushed the bird-mask from her, and began to sob.

Beside the great mound the brook ran swift and silent between fern-hung banks. A fallen tree spanned it, stark in the early light. He crossed awkwardly, turned back to the girl. Sweat was on his face; he stared up at the Mound, plunged on again. Beyond the brook grew clumps of waist-high grass. He staggered between them, brown bog-water about his calves. There was a swell of rising ground; he fell to his knees, the girl beside him, hung his head and panted.

A voice said quietly, ‘Where to now, my Lord?’

He raised his face, slowly. Round him the semicircle of figures stood grey against the sky. A few paces beyond, masked and cloaked, was the priest. The Beautiful One glared, licking his mouth, and raised a shaking finger. ‘Eldron, Melgro, Baath,’ he said. ‘You are my men. Save me from treachery...’

The man called Eldron stepped forward, stood looking down. ‘Wake the thunder, Prince,’ he muttered. He whirled the heavy club he carried, struck. The Prince collapsed, setting up a hoarse bawling.

Melgro wiped his face. ‘Bow the trees down, Lord,’ he said, and struck in turn.

Baath, smiling, drew a heavy-bladed knife. ‘Rouse the lightning, ploughboy,’ he said, ‘and I will call you God.’ He drove with the blade; and the little group closed in, hacking in silence. Bright drops flew, spattering the rough grass; the bawls changed to a high-pitched keening that was cut off in its turn. The body rolled a little way, back to the water; shook, and was still.

The girl crouched where she had fallen, unmoving. As the priest approached she raised a face that was chalk-white beneath its tan. ‘Why, priest?’ she said, small voiced. ‘Why?’

Cha’Ensil stooped above her, drawing a small dagger from his belt. He said, ‘I loved him too.’ He pulled her head back quickly, and used the knife.

Potts has been dreaming again. First it seemed he was a child once more, back at home and in bed. He’d probably had asthma, he often used to get asthma. He knew he was a child, certainly, because of the pace at which his mother ran upstairs. She used to run like that to bring his tea, a bowl of tinned fruit salad (both cherries in his portion), buttered bread sliced thin and a half tablet of ephedrine hidden in a spoonful of jam,’ though over the years her feet had slowed and slowed. Later it seemed he was better because his mother said with all her old rough jocularity, ‘Out you go then, there’s bugger all up with you,’ and he left the house and went to the car - how the years did fly - and the car was the old MG he once owned, not the
Champ. His first motor, she had been. Where he drove he wasn’t sure; but she ran better than she had ever done, engine note humming through little towns, tacho needle flicking as h? climbed hill after sunlit hill and the gear lever clicking smoothly, snicking forward and back.

He’s feeling better about the other business too. He might have guessed of course she wasn’t dead. Now time, that had borne so heavily on him, has ceased to be a factor. Beyond the worlds he has glimpsed stretch others and still more; in one of them, assuredly, he will see the light shine in her eyes, feet her arms at last. Till then, he is content.

He puts his fingers to his face. If she was to walk in now, he’s afraid he’d look a mess. He seems to have developed a rash of little pimples round his mouth; and his breathing sounds queer, bubbling and thick. Also he wetted himself in the night; but he’s sure she’d understand. He’s got the pillow rigged now behind his back; and the pain doesn’t seem half as bad.

He’s not going to worry any more; there’s far too much to see. Already a new colour has entered his world. He holds the image that has come to him, the image of the ships. Soon, surely, he will see her again; she’s skipped down all the ages so far at his side.

I

It had rained all night and on into the morning, so that long puddles lay everywhere about the wharves of Crab Gut and the crowd that had assembled to see the greatship leave plashed ankle-deep in oozing yellow mud. Drifts of vapour obscured the sea-filled cleft in which the village stood; above the huts with their roof-combs of painted wood the Tower of the Crab loomed, a gaunt, pale silhouette. More than one of the watchers frowned at the omens, making beneath his cloak the sign that wards off evil luck.

Looker
lay ready at her berth, as she had lain all night. Her bow and stern posts, tall and intricately carved, were rigged in their sockets, the great truss that was her strength strained to humming tightness, her yard in place above the tripod of spars that served her as a mast. Trim she was and beautiful, low in the water and broad in the beam, as fine a fighting vessel as any in Sealand; but the shields strapped to her bulwarks were whitened in sign of peace, white cloths covered her sides and fighting top so that she already looked like a ship of the dead. The crowd muttered, shuffling its feet, turning from time to time to stare up at the stockade surrounding the Tower.

It was from the stockade that the expected procession debouched. First came Matt the Navigator, burly and bearded, a bearskin draped across his shoulders, the curved lever of the steering oar carried like a staff of office. Behind him walked Egril Shipmaster, oldest servant of the House of the Crab, and his two tall sons. Then came Ranna the priest; at his elbow walked a boy with caged cockerels for the shipblessing. There followed the forty-odd rowers and crew, muffled and hooded against the downpour. Last of all strode Rand the Solitary, onetime Prince of Crabland, with Elgro the Dancing Man at his side.

Alone of all the company, Rand was bareheaded; also the watchers saw he carried neither axe nor sword. The rain plastered the long fair hair to his skull, gleamed on cheekbones and throat. He held his face high, seeming unaware of the downpour; his eyes looked grey and vague as the sky.