The Scorpion God: Three Short Novels (5 page)

They stood and watched, while the soldiers put back the logs and levered the huge stones over them.

As the clean men had done with Great House, so they did with his Twin who stood erect in darkness behind the slot. Only when the Head Man came with the adze, he did not lever the mouth open because it was stone but touched it merely. As for the eyes of the Twin, they were already open, and stared out of the slot.

Then those who had linked hands crowded forward and were given each what they had to carry. They went forward between the rows of clean men, the stonecutter with his drill, the carpenter with his adze and chisel, the baker with his yeast, the brewer with his malt, the women finely dressed and painted, the musicians with their instruments under their arms. They laughed and chattered as they came in, and they received their bowls of drink with pride and delight. Only the Liar still struggled; and now his screams had an even more piercing point to them. The Head Man tried to soothe him, calling him sick and bewitched but the Liar would not listen.

“If you do, I’ll never tell him another lie—
never
!”

At that, the dancing faltered, and the favoured ones in the passage looked back in shocked surprise. The Head Man slapped the Liar sharply on the face so that for a moment he fell silent with the shock, sniffing and twitching.

“Calm yourself, Liar. Calm yourself. Now. Tell us. Why do you refuse eternal life?”

It was then that the Liar said the awful thing, the dirty thing, the thing that broke up the world. He paused for a moment. He ceased to sniff. He gave a convulsive wrench of his whole body that staggered the soldiers who held him. He crouched among them, glared back at the Head Man in fury and shouted the words at the top of his voice.

“Because
this
one
is
good
enough!”

The words silenced every sound except the quick panting of the Liar. The dancing stopped and the Liar was surrounded by a ring of shocked and contemptuous faces. Suddenly, as if he felt this contempt was thrusting him towards the God, he began to struggle fiercely. The Head Man held up his hand. The Liar stopped struggling and stared at this hand as if his life was held in it. The Head Man spoke quietly, like a physician explaining a disease.

“Great House never found a man who refused a favour from Him. But this man is unclean and must be cleaned. Take him to the pit.”

The Liar stayed tense only until he felt the soldiers turn away. Then he fell and would have collapsed in the sand if his arms had not held him to the soldiers like ropes. The soldiers walked away, dragging the Liar with them and his head lolled and his mouth stayed open. The crowd watched, saying nothing. The soldiers dragged the Liar back along the causeway and out of sight.

Then the people, as if united more than ever by this extravagant event, turned back to the passage. Those who waited in the passage with their instruments and bowls of drink, began to sing, and move forward; and those who disappeared at the farther end, when they could no longer be seen, could no longer be heard either, so that the singing diminished as the visible numbers decreased. When there were only two left, the song was hardly loud enough to be heard outside the passage. Then there was one, then none, and only the faintest suggestion of sound that lingered round the passage end. The crowd listened, straining, leaning forward, heads on one side—not knowing whether there was indeed a faint sound or only the memory of it. At last there was undoubted silence; and sorrow rose among those who were left with their private Nows to cope with. This sorrow was gradual as the diminution of the singing but undoubted as the silence. It came up out of the earth. The women began to wail and beat their breasts and tear their hair; and the men moaned like trapped animals. Only the clean men were untouched by this sorrow. They took food and drink and fire. They closed the entrance with powerful words, offered food and drink at the slot and spoke to the unwinking eyes that stared back at them out of the darkness. They came up out of the passage and walked with the Head Man back along the causeway. The crowd walked, drifted, waded away. Only the soldiers were left. They began to work, filling the passage with stones and sand.

The Prince was being made to practise the godpose. The Head Man had taken him away from his nurses and sat him in a suitable chair. There he was, in the gloomy banqueting hall, knees and feet together, chest out, chin lifted, eyes open and staring at nothing. He wore a childsize ceremonial outfit, complete with tail; he held the crook and flail crossed before his chest. They had taken away his lovely side-lock and he was bald as a pebble beneath the close-fitting wig. The tall, linen crown was fastened to his wig, and a beard was strapped to his chin. He sat, trying to breathe imperceptibly and not blink, while the gloom wavered and the tears of effort formed in his eyes.

The Head Man strolled round and round him. The only noise came from the faint swish of his skirt.

“Good,” said the Head Man. “Very good.” 

Round and round. One of the tears rolled from the Prince’s clouded eye down his cheek. He gave up, and blinked furiously.

“There,” said the Head Man. “You were doing so well but you spoilt it. Keep them open and the tears will come for the people. Don’t blink!”

“I must blink! People blink!”

“You will not be ‘People’,” said the Head Man crossly. “You will be the God, Great House, throned in state, holding power in one hand and care in the other.”

“They’ll see me cry!”

“They are meant to see you cry. It is a profound religious truth. Do you suppose any God who keeps his eyes open can do other than weep for what he sees?”

“Anyone would weep,” said the Prince sullenly, “if he kept his eyes open and didn’t blink or rub them.”

“‘Anyone’,” said the Head Man, “would blink or rub them. That’s the difference.”

The Prince straightened himself and stared again into the gloom. He saw the wide rectangle of the entrance at the other end of the hall lighten, and knew that the sunlight was creeping along the corridor towards it. He gave up, shut his eyes and bowed his head. The crook and flail clattered in his lap. The Head Man stopped strolling.

“Not again!”

“I can’t do it. Keeping the sky up—bouncing up and down on my sister—keeping my eyes open—making the river rise——”

The Head Man struck one fist into the other hand. For a moment it seemed as if he would burst out in fury; but he mastered himself, bowing his head, swallowing, breathing deeply.

“Look, child. You don’t know our danger. You don’t know how little time there is—your sister withdrawn—seeing no one—the river rising——”

He bent down and peered into the Prince’s face.

“You
must
do it! Everything will be all right. I promise. Now. Try again.”

Once more the Prince took up the godpose. The Head Man watched him for a while.

“That’s better! Now. I have to see your sister—have to! So I shall leave you here. Stay as you are until the sun reaches from one side of the entrance to the other.”

He drew himself up, raised one hand, lowered it to his knee, took three steps backward, then turned and hurried away.

When the swish, swish of the Head Man’s skirt was out of earshot, the Prince let out all his breath and slumped, eyes shut. He raised a bony forearm and smeared it across his face. He shifted his skinny rump, where the tail was making it ache. He laid the crook and flail on the floor by the chair. He looked at the doorway for a moment; then tore the linen crown from his head, so that the close-fitting wig came with it, and the narrow strap of the beard broke. He flung the whole thing down on the crook and flail. He hunched, glumly, chin on fists, elbows on knees. A grain of sunlight on tiles flashed into view and he screwed up his eyes against it. The grain enlarged to a brilliant patch.

He jerked upright in the chair, then began to walk restlessly, pad, pad, round the huge room. He glanced now and then at the walls, where the bird-headed, dog-headed figures did not weep. He stopped at last, in the middle of the room with his back to the sunlight. Slowly he lifted his head, peered up at the gloomy beams and awful solidity of the rafters. He flinched away from the sight as if the beams threatened to fall on his head.

He went softly to the entrance and looked into the corridor. At one end, a guard leaned against the wall. The Prince squared his shoulders as best he could and walked steadily towards the guard, who woke and lifted his spear. The Prince ignored him and turned the corner, where a girl backed submissively against the wall to let him pass. He went away through the Great House, ignoring all the people he met until he came to the back and heard the muted noises from the kitchens. He passed them, the cooks lying asleep, the scouring and staring scullions, their court where geese roasted slowly over charcoal on spits under the open sky. The postern gate to the cliffs and desert was open. He took a deep breath, like a boy about to dive, clenched his fists, and passed through.

Outside the gate, he paused in the shadow of the wall and examined the knees of cliffs, sandscrees, the line of rock-edge against the sky. Everything was fierce and barren. There was nothing as pleasant as palmshade by water; but there were plenty of places to hide. He began to make his way forward and up, keeping where he could in the shadow of rocks, though there was little enough of that. As he went, he muttered.

“She
can keep it up!”

He was crying.

He stumbled sideways and crouched behind a boulder, peering round it. There was a man among the rocks. This man knelt on a knoll of rock so that he was outlined in profile against the cliffs. His head was bowed as though the sun had struck him down.

The man knelt up. He began to do something regular with his arms and suddenly the Prince understood that the man was pulling a string or a rope out of the earth. No sooner had he understood this than he saw some bowls and platters appear under the man’s hand—held perhaps in a net of cords too thin to be visible. The man stood up, made a jeering noise and spat down at his feet. He took up a stone and threatened the ground with it. He pretended to throw down once or twice, then did throw strongly and a scream came up out of the rock. The man turned and came strolling back, laughing, and swinging the string bag with its bowls and platters. The Prince shrank down behind his boulder and listened as the man went back. He was trembling, and went on trembling long after the postern gate slammed shut.

He got up, shading his eyes with both hands and went forward. The sun fell on his bald head and beat back from the rock. He limited himself to his one good eye and climbed the knoll.

The first thing he was aware of was the smell; then after, the flies. The knoll swarmed with them. Their buzzing increased with every step he took, and soon they discovered him.

He found himself on the edge of a pit. The sunlight lit it right to the bottom, except on one side, where there was a little shade by the wall. The flies liked the pit, evidently, for they buzzed away down there and covered the refuse, the bones and decaying meat, the slimy vegetables and stained stones. The blind man lay in one corner under the sun, his head propped against rock. The only difference between his bones and the others was that his were still covered with skin. He was very dirty. His mouth was open and his tongue showed where the flies did not cover it. As the Prince realized who he was, he heard him make a tiny sound, without moving either his lips or his tongue.

“Kek.”

Near the centre of the pit and in a small area cleared of refuse, knelt a man. The Prince inspected him, then cried out.

“Liar!”

But the Liar said nothing and went on drinking. His head was in the bowl between his hands and he sucked busily, louder than the blind man’s kek, or the flies buzzing. He lifted his head and the bowl together, to take the last drop. His eyes were above the bowl’s rim. He glimpsed someone kneeling on the edge of the pit and ducked away.

“Don’t!”

“Dear Liar! It’s I!”

Cautiously, forearm lifted for protection, the Liar squinted up. His face was blistered and dirty except where there was new blood on it, and his eyes were rimmed as red as the blood.

“The Prince?”

“Help me!”

The Liar stumbled round in the refuse. He yelled back.

“You? You don’t need any help! What about me?”

“I’ve run away.”

“I’m dreaming. I’m seeing things. They said I was mad—and now——”

“I don’t want to go back.”

The Liar put both fists above his eyes and squinted upward.

“It’s really you?”

“They’re turning me into a god.”

The Liar spoke with dreadful urgency.

“Get me out of here! That sister of yours—tell her to help!”

“She won’t see anyone,” said the Prince. “And besides, I’m running away. We could go together.”

The Liar went still.

“You? Run away?”

“We could go and live where it’s cold.”

“Oh so easily,” said the Liar, jeering. “You just don’t know!”

“I’ve got as far as this by myself.”

The Liar gave a kind of yelling laugh.

“We’d go down the river, across the sea, across the land, then more sea——”

“Yes, let’s!”

“Have you ever been swopped for a boatload of onions?”

“No, of course not.”

“Or felt up by a Syrian to see if you’re too old to make a eunuch?”

“What’s a Syrian?”

“We’d be sold again as slaves——”

The Liar paused, licked his cracked lips, stared slowly round the pit then up again at the Prince.

“Half a boatload, perhaps, only you’re not very strong and you’re not very pretty, are you?”

“I’m a boy. If I were a girl I’d be pretty. And not have to make the river rise, or——”

“Those bracelets you’re wearing,” said the Liar slowly. “They’d be thrown in. You might make a eunuch.”

“I’d sooner be a girl,” said the Prince with a touch of bashfulness. “Could it be arranged, do you think?”

Under the dirt, there was a still look of calculation on the Liar’s face.