The High Priest pondered: the auguries had been clear – and had they not foretold everything, so far, exactly as it had happened? Yet it was obvious, beyond all doubt, that the chief could never father another child. If he kept his promise to the gods, then the house of Krona would end, the new temple would have been built in vain, and in return for their faith it seemed that the gods would visit upon them and upon Sarum the punishment of death and darkness. But why?
Dluc hesitated. He was not sure what to do or what to say. Finally, when the two men were alone, it was Krona who spoke.
“You cannot sacrifice the child.” It was no more than a whisper, but it went straight to the priest’s heart. He was silent. He could not look at the chief.
“The child is all we have,” Krona said softly. It was true. But still Dluc could not answer. Painfully the chief raised himself on his elbow and stared at him intently. “Promise me,” he whispered, “you will not give the child to the gods.”
Dluc almost wept. But he was the High Priest, and he knew what must be done. Had he not sworn to Sun himself, “Never again, never will I doubt”?
“The gods must be obeyed,” he said.
“Save my child, priest!” the chief cried out in agony, before falling back.
Dluc thought of the nineteen girls that he had sacrificed without mercy; now it seemed that the gods had ordained he too should suffer pain. But what did it all mean? He did not know, but he knew what he must say.
“We cannot question the gods,” he replied.
Did he believe that the gods would keep their promise at that moment? Did he, the High Priest, trust them this time?
For a moment he thought Krona would burst out with rage, but then he saw that the chief no longer had the strength. Instead, he did what was harder to bear: he reasoned with him.
Gently, patiently, as a friend, Krona explained to the priest why he must not do this terrible thing. “My firstborn were already given to the gods when my sons were drowned,” he said, “you priests have misunderstood the auguries.” He assailed him with every argument; he told Dluc that he must not destroy Sarum, reminded him of the chaos that would follow if he died without an heir. His reasoning was perfect. But it was useless.
“The gods must be obeyed,” Dluc told him. “We must trust them and they will not desert us.” But Krona only shook his head.
The day wore on and neither the High Priest nor Krona would give way. With an incredible strength of will, he held on to life, sometimes reasoning with the priest, at other times abusing him. Once he even threatened his life. But he knew by then that he was powerless; in this matter no one, not even his servants, would dare to question the will of the High Priest.
It was while they continued this grim argument, that Menona went into labour. She had been shocked by the sight of Krona’s wounds, and that evening, quite suddenly, she began. She was almost a month early. They took her to a small chamber at the back of the house, where two women skilled in childbirth looked after her.
Now Krona became desperate. As the sun set and the tapers were lit, he pleaded with the priest again and again, crying out in agony so great that Dluc feared it would kill him:
“Priest, I am dying. Save my child!”
Dluc wept. He turned his face away because he could not look at Krona. He trembled. But still he held firm. And at last, in the middle of the night, he heard the cry of the newborn child, and strode out of the room.
It was only then, at the end of his last trial, that Dluc came to understand the beauty, the perfect symmetry of the workings of the gods. For the sight that greeted his eyes was so wonderful that it made him cry out for joy.
In their hands the women held not one, but two children that the golden-haired girl had given to Sarum: a boy and a girl. Although premature, both were healthy. Menona was smiling weakly.
“Give me the first born,” the priest severely commanded; and, as he knew they would, they handed him the baby girl. “To the gods, we have promised the first born,” he cried. “And now Sarum has an heir.”
It was the eve of the solstice.
Before the festival of the dedication could be celebrated, there was for the people of Sarum one terrible day that must be gone through.
The family of Nooma the mason rose at dawn, and, looking at each other apprehensively, sat by their hut in the valley.
For on this day, all Sarum knew, the nineteen sacrificial victims were to be chosen; and the people trembled as little parties of priests solemnly went from farm to farm, from the valleys to the harbour, pointing the ceremonial bronze knife at their victims and leading them away. There was no way of guessing whom the priests would choose. Sometimes it was a malefactor, or someone who had rashly offended them; but it was just as likely to be a blameless labourer, or a rich farmer’s daughter. No one of either sex, of any age or from any family was immune. For the priests were too wise to let any man or woman think that he or she could escape the absolute rule of the sun god or his chosen priests.
As Nooma and his family waited in their hut, he was very much afraid. His mind was troubled by several things. There was the imperfect lintel that he should never have allowed to happen. Would the priests forgive that? Surely not. And the murder of Tark. Had the priests guessed? The mason wiped his head and found that there were beads of perspiration there. Of course they knew. It was foolish to think for a moment that there was anything that could be hidden from them.
“I think they will come for me,” he finally whispered aloud.
Katesh looked at the little fellow in surprise.
“For the builder of the henge?” She shrugged. “I do not think so.”
Nooma said nothing. He did not share her confidence. Would Katesh mind if he were chosen, he suddenly wondered? Probably not. Then, fearfully, he looked at the children. The ways of the priests were inscrutable. What if, to punish him, they chose one of them? There would be children amongst the victims: you could be sure of that. He realised the sorrow he would feel if they took little Pia, who even then was staring up at him with her large, trusting eyes.
And as for Noo-ma-ti . . .
“If they will only take me, and not the boy,” he silently prayed.
The day wore on, in silence. The sun began to sink.
“They will not come here at all,” Katesh stated. And the mason began to think that, after all, she was correct.
They came. Two priests, one young, one old, walking slowly down the path towards the hut, just as the shadows from the nearby trees were lengthening towards them. When they reached the hut, where the little family now stood trembling before them, the young priest took out a long, thin bronze knife and handed it silently to the older, who pointed it.
As he did so, and the mason saw that it pointed at his little son, he cried out: “No! Take me! I have murdered! I have defiled the temple! I should die!” And he threw himself forward.
But the young priest was shaking his head. And, confused, Nooma turned and saw his mistake: for the knife was not pointing at Noo-ma-ti at all, but at Katesh, who was standing immediately behind the boy, and whose large eyes were now staring at the young priest in disbelief.
“It is the will of the gods,” the young priest said.
Then Nooma knew that the priests were all-seeing and that their rule, though cruel, had a terrible justice.
The ceremonies began at dusk.
Already, nearly four thousand people were gathered on the slopes surrounding the henge. In the place of honour, where Krona himself should have been standing, two chosen men stood, one bearing the chief’s breastplate, chased with gold, the other holding his ceremonial mace with its zig-zag decoration of amber set in gold.
As the sun sank towards the horizon, the priests arrived: a long procession of them followed by the party in charge of those who were to be sacrificed. They made their way slowly to the entrance of the avenue, where they waited for the sun to set.
The priests, except for Dluc himself, were dressed in white, and the crimson rays of the evening sun caught their robes.
On this greatest of days, the High Priest was dressed in a magnificent robe of red and white, sparkling with precious stones. His long face was painted white. On his head he wore the tall headdress of bronze decorated with a golden disc that flashed in the sunlight, and in his hand everyone could see the long staff, with its shining top shaped in the form of a swan. Taller by far than all those around him, he was an awesome figure.
The sun departed, dusk fell, and the crowd prepared for the silent vigil that would last through this shortest night of the year. Shortly after dark, the full moon slowly rose.
Nooma the mason stared across at the great henge, his life’s work. The perfect circle of grey stones stood in the eye of the henge bathed in the pure white light of the moon, and casting huge shadows that slowly altered their shape and revolved as the night passed. Between the stones he could see the innermost sanctum, the semi circle of trilithons, and the terrifying slab of the altar stone. Of all that had happened to him, he wondered, had anything been of significance except this huge, demanding, temple of stone? Truly the power of the priests was terrible he thought, and silently he put one arm round his son and held Pia close – knowing that both children must grow up in the shadow of the henge.
Slowly the night passed.
At the first, just perceptible lightening of the eastern horizon, the priests began a slow, monotonous chant; then they began to move at a stately pace, up the six hundred yards of the avenue towards the circle of stone. In the faint half light Nooma peered to try to see the sacrificial victims, but he could not. He tightened his grip upon the children.
“Your mother is lucky,” he told them. “She is to be given as a special gift to the gods.” Pia’s large eyes gazed at him, uncomprehending; but Noo-ma-ti, who half understood what was passing, began to sob.
For his part, the mason felt no emotion. The rule of the priests and of their henge was too awesome, at such moments, to leave men time for their own emotions. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.
In the east, above the horizon – the sky was beginning to glimmer.
And in the centre of the henge, still and silent as a stone, the gaunt figure of Dluc the High Priest waited by the altar stone.
Just before the procession had started to move up the avenue, they had brought him word that Krona had died. Soon he would lie in a great white tomb on the high ground, his spirit at rest. The High Priest was glad that the chief had found release. It was fitting that Krona should have passed to the next world to walk with the spirits at this moment of renewal.
For as the new henge waited for the sun god to show his face, the High Priest realised that it was only now that he himself had understood the importance of all that had passed since the death of Krona’s sons.
For how was it that the sacred sayings of the priests began? What were the opening words – before the long history of Sarum; before the story of the great flood that cut off the path to the east and made the land an island; before the endless catalogue of all the observed motions of the heavenly bodies, that took the novices two years to learn; before the recital and explanation of the mystic numbers: what were the all important words that preceded it all?
Sun gives; Sun takes away;
That was the meaning of the new henge; that was the meaning of the stones, of the nineteen girls that Krona killed, of the nineteen years of the sacred moonswing and the perfect opposition of sun and moon which he was about to witness. That was why the henge was perfect, fitted together in a perfect circle, indestructible. That was why a new heir had been born out of the suffering of Krona and his people. Had he dared to doubt?
Nothing takes place by chance. The purposes of the gods may be hidden, but they are absolute, perfect in their terrible symmetry and order; and as fixed as the stars. This was what Dluc now understood as even he had never understood before.
And for men on earth, there was only one course: obedience. This was the message of the curse that had fallen upon Sarum, of the death of the chief and his sons. This was the message of the sacrifices.
Men build to honour the gods. And men may try to measure the heavens. But that is all. They may not question: they must obey.
It was almost sunrise. Drops of dew had formed on the High Priest’s robes.
Soon the great moment was coming.
As the sky lightened, it could be seen that the full moon had moved to a point a little above the western horizon, and exactly opposite the avenue. In the east now, as the sky above started to turn to a deep, luminous blue, the horizon line began to shimmer with light, first a thin, silvery line, then a crimson and saffron gleam. The chant of the priests grew louder. The crowd grew tense. The horizon began to glow; and now the whole east was turning to magenta, turquoise, azure, and the horizon was throbbing. Opposite, the moon was just above the ridges.