Soldier of the Mist

CHAPTER VI-Eos

The lady of the dawn is in the sky. I know her name because a moment ago as I unrolled this scroll she touched it with her shell-pink finger and traced the letters for me there. I have copied them just where she drew them-look and see.

I remember writing last night, and what I wrote; but the things themselves have vanished. I hope I wrote the truth. It is important to know the truth, because so soon what I write will be all I know.

Last night I slept only a little, though I rolled up this beautiful papyrus and tied it with its cords so I might sleep. One of the slaves of the Rope Makers woke me, sitting cross-legged beside me and shaking me by the shoulder.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

I told him I did not.

"I am Cerdon. I let you leave the road when you saw… "

He waited expectantly.

"I'm tired," I told him. "I want to sleep."

"I could beat you-you know that? You've probably never had a real beating in your life."

"I don't know."

The anger drained from his face, though it still looked dark in the firelight. "That's right, you don't, do you? The poet told me about you. Do you remember what you saw under the vines?"

It was lost, but I recalled what I had written. "A black man, an old man and fat."

"A god," Cerdon whispered. His eyes sought the heavens, and in the clear night found innumerable stars. "I'd never seen one before. I never even knew anybody who had. Ghosts, yes, many; but not a god."

I asked, "Then how can you be sure?"

"We danced. I too-I couldn't stand still. It was a god, and you saw him when none of the rest of us could. Then when you touched him, all of us could see him. Everyone knows what happened."

Very softly the serpent woman hissed. She was beyond the firelight, but it gleamed in her eyes as in beads of jet. They said, "Give him to me!" and I heard the scales of her belly like daggers drawn from their sheaths as she moved impatiently over the spring grass.

"No," I said.

"Yes, we do," Cerdon insisted. "Then I saw him as I see you now. Except that he didn't look like you. He didn't look like any ordinary man."

"No," I said again, and let my eyes close. "Do you know of the Great Mother?"

I opened them again, and because I lay face down with my head pillowed on my arms, I saw Cerdon's feet and the crushed grass on which he sat. The grass looked black in the firelight.

"No," I said a third time. And then, "Perhaps somewhere I have heard of her."

"The Rope Makers call us slaves, but there was a time when we were free. We pulled the oars in the galleys of Minos, but we did it for silver and because we shared in his glory."

Cerdon's voice, which had been only a whisper before, fell lower, so low I could scarcely hear him, though my ears were so near his lips. "The Great Mother was our goddess then, as she is our goddess still. The Descender overcame her. That's what they say. He took her against her will, and such was his might that she bore him the Fingers, five boys and five girls. Yet she hates him, though he woos her with rain and rends her oaks to show his strength. The Rope Makers say the oaks are his, but that can't be. If they were his, would he destroy them?"

"I don't know," I said. "Perhaps."

"The trees are hers," Cerdon whispered. "Only hers. That's why the Rope Makers make us cut them down, make us dig out their stumps and plow the fields. The whole Silent Country was covered with oak and pine, when we were free. Now the Rope Makers say the Huntress rules Redface Island-because she's the Descender's daughter, and they want us to forget our Great Mother. We haven't forgotten. We'll never forget."

I tried to nod, but my head was too heavy to move.

"We've been slaves, but we're warriors now. You saw my javelins and my sling."

I could not remember, but I said I had.

"A year ago, they would have killed me if I touched them. Only they had arms, and the arms were guarded by armed Rope Makers, always. Then the Great King came. They needed us, and now we're warriors. Who can keep warriors slaves? They will strike him down!"

I said, "And you wish me to strike with you," because it was plain that it was what he had come for.

"Yes!" His spittle flew in my face.

"There's no Rope Maker with you now." I sat up, rubbing my eyes. "Is there? Is this the country of the Rope Makers?"

"They have no country, they have only their city. The Silent Country is ours. But no, we're not there. It's far to the south, on Redface Island."

"Then why go back? You have friends and weapons."

"Our wives are there, and our children. No, you must come with us. You must find the Great Mother and touch her. We will kiss the ground at her feet then, because to kiss the ground is to kiss her lips. We will drive the Rope Makers back into the sea, and she will be our queen. I have your sword, and I'll give it to you again if you'll lead us. You will be her chief priest."

"Then I'll lead you," I said. "In the morning, when we're rested and ready to march."

"Good! Good!" Cerdon smiled broadly, and I saw that some blow had deprived him of three teeth. "You won't forget?"

"I'll write it in this scroll."

"No," he said. "Don't write it, someone may see it."

But I have written anyway, so I will not forget. This is everything Cerdon said and all I said.

When he had gone to another place and stretched himself to sleep, the serpent woman came, saying, "Won't you give him to me?"

"Who am I," I asked, "that I should say yes to you, or no?"

"Give him something of yours," the serpent woman instructed me. "Bathe him or touch him. If you only touch him, it may be enough to make him real."

"He's real now," I said. "A man of blood and bone, just as I am. You aren't real." What she had said had made me think about those things.

"Less than his dreams," the serpent woman hissed. A tongue of blue fire with two points emerged from her mouth when she spoke. "What is it you wish? Perhaps I can bring it to you."

"Only to sleep," I said. "To sleep and to dream of home."

"Touch him for me then, and I will go away. The fauns bring dreams, and should I meet one, I will order him to bring you the dream you wish."

"Who are you?" I asked her, for I was still thinking of such matters.

"A daughter of Enodia." Her eyes sought out the refulgent moon, riding just above the horizon cradled in a woman's slender arms.

"Is that who holds the moon?" I asked. "I see her, and I would not call her dark."

"Now she is the Huntress," the serpent woman hissed, "and Selene. You may see more of both than you like before you're done."

Then she was gone.

I tried to sleep again, but Sleep would not come, though I saw him standing with closed eyes at the edge of the firelight. In a moment, he turned away to walk among the shadows. I thought then of writing in this scroll but felt too tired. Holding it as near the flames as I dared, I read it for a time.

Pindaros came. "I see you can sleep no more than I," he said. "That's an evil thing, for slaves. A slave must learn to sleep whenever he can."

"Are we slaves?" I asked.

"We are now. No, worse, for we are the slaves of the slaves of the Rope Makers. Soon they will take us to their masters, and then perhaps we'll only be slaves of the Rope Makers. That will be better, if you like, but I won't celebrate it."

"Will we have to twist their ropes for them?"

Pindaros chuckled. "They don't really make rope," he said. "Or anyway, no more than anyone else does. If we're very unlucky, we'll be driven into the mines. That's the worst thing that can befall a slave."

I nodded to show I understood.

"I don't think that will happen to me. The People of Thought may destroy our shining city and take my property-they hate us-but I have friends even in Thought, and certain talents."

"You're worried about the little girl and me." I looked across the fire at the sleeping child.

"And Hilaeira, and the black man too. If I'm freed, I'll buy freedom for all of you if I can. But it might help if you could sing for the Rope Makers as you sang today to the playing of the god. They love choral music, and they don't much value soloists; still no one could resist that, and no one would keep such a singer a slave. Can you do it?"

Hoping to please him, I tried; but I could not recall the words I had sung, nor any tune.

"It will be all right," Pindaros said. "I'll get us all freed some way. You don't remember, I know; I could see it in your eyes. It was a miracle, and you've forgotten it."

"I'm sorry," I told him, and I was.

"You haven't offended me." He sighed. "And I'm sorrier for you, Latro, than for any other man I know."

I asked whether he recalled the words.

"No," he said. "Not really. But I remember how they sounded, that great rushing swing like waves beating upon a cliff that ended in larks and thunder. That's the way poetry ought to sound."

I nodded because he seemed to expect it.

"As my own never has. But after hearing your song, I think I may be getting a bit closer. Listen to this:

"Arrows have I for the hearts of the wise, Straight-drawn by Nature to bear off the prize, But lift I my bow to the crowd on the plain, The fools hear but wind, and some fool must explain."

"Do you like it?"

"Very much," I said.

"Well, I don't. But I like it better than anything I've done before tonight. In our shining city, there are-there were, I ought to say-half a dozen of us who tried our hands at verse now and then. That was the way we put it, 'tried our hands,' as though there were no difference between composing poetry and weaving mats beside the fire. We met monthly to sing our latest lines to one another, and pretended not to notice that none of them was ever heard again. If mine had seemed the best to me when our dinner was over, why, I was the cock of the walk-in my own eyes-for the month that followed. How proud I was of my little ode for the Pythia's games!" I said, "I suppose everyone's vain in one way or another. I know I am."

Pindaros shrugged. "Your good looks are real, and so is your strength, as you proved just today. But as for us-now I see that we were only noisy boys, when we should have been men or been silent. After hearing the god this afternoon, it may be that I will be a man someday. I hope so. Latro, I wouldn't boast to you like this-and that's what it is, boasting-if I didn't know you'll forget everything I've said."

"I'll write it down," I told him.

"To be sure!" Pindaros laughed softly. "The gods have their revenge, as always.

"We call for night to hide our acts, But Night, a god, gives God the facts."

"I like that, too," I said.

"Composed for you this moment and thrown hot from the forge. Still, there may be something in it. We've need of night."

"Pindaros, is there really a god of night?"

"There are at least a dozen."

"With a body like a snake's and a head like a woman's, a woman with black hair that has never seen a comb?"

He stared at me for a moment in silence, and at last stirred the fire as he had before. "You've seen that, haven't you? No, that's no goddess-it's a monster of some kind. Heracles was supposed to have rid this part of the world of them; but Heracles has been on the Mountain for four hundred years, and I suppose they're creeping back. Do you see it now?"

I shook my head.

"Good. I was hoping to get some sleep before these slaves stirred their lazy legs. If you see your monster again, don't touch it. Promise?"

"I promise." I almost said that if I were to touch him, that might be enough; but I did not.

He rose and stretched. "Then I'll try to sleep. A sleep without dreams, I hope. Empty of horrors. I ought to copy you and write myself a note forbidding me to talk to you in the dark. Alas, I lack your diligence. Good night again, Latro."

"Good night, Pindaros."

When he was gone, a small arm circled my waist. "I know you," I told its owner. "You're Io. I've been reading about you in this scroll."

"You're my master," the child said. "They had no right to do what they did to me. Only you."

"What did they do?" I asked, but she did not answer. Putting my arm about her shoulders, I looked at her face in the firelight and saw how many tears had furrowed those dusty cheeks. "If the serpent woman comes again, I'll tell her she can't have you."

She shook her head. "It's not that. I ran away, and now I've been punished for it."

"Did you run away from me, little Io? I wouldn't punish you if you did."

She shook her head. "From the Bright God. And I lied when I said he'd given me to you."

"Perhaps he did," I told her. Holding her close, I watched the silent figures in the shadows for some sign, but there was none. "The gods are not at all like us, little Io."