Shardik (93 page)

His foot slipped and he stumbled, clutching quickly at his companion’s shoulder.

‘All right, mate?’ whispered the soldier. ‘Hold on. Comin’ up now, look.’

He lifted his head, peering in front of him. The two files were opening out, moving apart, while ahead of him Melathys
still
paced on alone. Now he remembered where he was. They had come to that part of the shore which lay between the southern outskirts of the village and
the
wooded inlet where Shardik had died. That it was crowded he could see, but at first he could not make out
the
people who were surrounding the stony, open space into which he was following
Melathys
. A sudden fear came upon him.

‘Wait,’ he said to the soldier. ‘Wait a moment.’

He stopped,
still
leaning on the man, and looked about him. From all sides, faces were turned towards him and eyes were
staring expectantl
y. He realized why he had felt afraid. He had known them before - the eyes, the silence. But as though to transform the curses which he had carried out of Kabin, everyone was looking at him with admiration, with pity and gratitude. On his left stood
the
villagers: men, women and children all in mourning, with covered heads and bare feet. Gathered behind the file of soldiers now halted and facing inwards in extended order, they filled the
shore to the water’s edge. Alth
ough, from natural awe and sense of occasion,
they
did not press forward, yet
they
could not help swaying and moving where they stood as they pointed out to one another, and held up their children to see, the beautiful priestess of Quiso and
the
holy man who had suffered such bitter hardship and cruelty to vindicate the truth and power of God. Many of
the
children were carrying flowers
- trcpsis and field lily, plane
lla, green-blo
oming vine and long sprays of me
likon blossom. Suddenly, of his own accord,
a
little
boy came forward, stared gravely up at Kelderek, laid his bunch at his feet and ran quickly back to his mother.

On
the
right stood
the
Yeldashay
troops - the entire Sarkid contingent who had marched from Kabin to close the Linsho Gap. Their line, too, extended to the water’s edge, and
their
polished arms shone bravely in
the
light of the westering sun. In front,
a
young officer held aloft the Corn-Sheaves banner, but as Melathys passed him he dropped on one knee, slowly lowering it until the blue cloth lay broad across the stones.

With an extraordinary sense of grave, solemn joy, such as he had never known,
Kelderek
braced himself to go forward over the shore. Still he could not see the river, for between it and
Melathys
a
third group were facing him - a single line, parallel
with
the water’s edge, extending between the villagers and the soldiers. At its centre stood Radu, pale and drawn, dressed, like Melathys, in villager’s clothes, his face disfigured with bruises and one arm in a sling. On each side of him were some five or she of
the
slave children - all, it seemed, who had been able to find the strength to stand and walk. Indeed, it appeared to Kelderek, looking at them, that there might be some who could scarcely do so much, for two or three, like himself, were leaning on companions - village boys, they looked to be -while behind the line were benches, from which they had evid
ently
risen at the approach of the priestess. He saw the boy with whom he had talked in the night and w
ho had told him about Leg-by-Lee
. Then he suddenly started, recognizing, at one extremity of the line, Shouter, who caught his eye for a moment and looked quickly away.

As Melathys halted, soldiers took away the benches, the children moved apart in either direcdon, and now for the first
time
Kelderek
saw the water’s edge and the river beyond.

A small fire was burning on the stones, a
little
in front of
the
shoreward extremity of the soldiers’ line. It was bright and clear, with hardly a trace of smoke, and above it the air wavered, distorting
the
distant view. Yet this he scarcely noticed, standing, like a child, with one hand raised to his open mouth, staring at what lay immediately before him.

In the shallows a heavy raft was moored - a raft bigger than the floor of a dwelling-hut, made of sapling trunks lashed together with creeper. It was covered with high piled brushwood, logs and dry faggots, over which had been sprinkled flowers and green boughs. Upon this great bed, pres
sing it down, as a fortress settl
es upon the ground where it is built, lay the body of Shardik. He was lying on one side, as naturally as though sleeping, one fore-paw extended,
the
claws hanging down almost to the water. The eyes were closed - stitched, perhaps, thought Kelderek, observing with what care and pains
the
villagers and soldiers had carried out their work of preparing for his obsequies the Power of God - but
the
long wedge of
the
muzzle, if it had once been shut, had in some way burst its binding, so that now
the
lips snarled open round the pointed teeth. The poor, wounded face had been cleaned and tended, yet all that
the
soldiers had been able to do could not obliterate, to
the
eyes of one who had once seen them, the marks of Shardik’s wounds and sufferings. Nor could the long, careful combing, the removal of briars and thorns and the brushing in of oil disguise the starved desolation of the body. It was not possible for Shardik to appear small, but less colossal he looked; and as it were, shrunken in
the
grip of death. There was a faint odour of carrion, and
Kelderek
realized that
Melathys, from the moment that she heard the news, must have grasped the necessity of speed and known that she would barely have time to carry out all that the Tuginda would wish. She had done well, he thought, and more than well. Then, as he took yet a few more painful steps forward, his line of vision became direct and he saw what had been concealed from him before.

Between Shardik’s front paws lay the body of Shara. The extended paw covered her feet, while her raised head rested upon the other. She was bare-headed and dressed in a white smock, her hands clasped about a bunch of scarlet trepsis. Her fair hair had been combed over her shoulders and round her neck had been fastened a string of pierced and coloured stones. Although her eyes were closed, she did not look as
though
she were asleep. Her thin body and face were those of a dead child, drained and waxen: and cleaner, stiller and more tranquil than ever Kelderek had seen them in life. Dropping his head on
the
soldier’s arm, he sobbed as uncontrollably as though the shore had been deserted.

‘Steady now, mate, steady,’ whispered the kindly, decent fellow, ignoring everything but the poor foreigner clinging to him. ‘Why,
they
ain’t there, you know. That ain’t nothing, that ain’t. They’re off somewhere better, you can be sure of that. Only we got to do what’s right and proper, ‘aven’t we?’

Kelderek nodded, bore down on the supporting arm and turned once more to face the raft as Melathys passed close to him on her way to speak to Tan-Rion. Despite their debt to the Yeldashay she spoke, as was right, out of the authority conferred upon her and not as one asking a favour.

‘Captain,’ she said, ‘by the ancient rule of Quiso no weapons must be brought into any place sacred to Lord Shardik. I tell you this, but I leave you, of course, to order
the
matter as you think best.’

Tan-Rion took it very well. Hesitating only a moment, he nodded, then turned his soldiers about and marched them back a
little
distance along
the
shore. There each man grounded his spear and laid beside it his belt, short sword and knife. As they returned, halted and dressed their line, Melathys stepped forward into the shallows and stood motionless before the raft, her arms outstretched towards Shardik and
the
dead child.

How many times has that scene been depicted - carved in relief on stone, painted on walls, drawn with brush and ink on scrolls, scratched with pointed sticks in the wet sand of the Telthearna shore? On one side the fishermen and peasants, on the other the unarmed soldiers, the handful of children be
side the fire (first, the very fi
rst, of all those to bless the name of Lord Shardik), the Man supported on the soldier’s arm, the Woman standing alone before the bodies on the floating pyre? The sculptors and the painters have done what was required of them, finding ways to reflect the awe and wonder in the hearts of people who have known the story since they were
little
children themselves. The fisher-folk - handsome, strong young men, fine old patriarchs and their grave dames - face the resplendent soldiers in their red cloaks, each a warrior to conquer
a
thousand hearts. The Man’s unhealed wounds bleed red upon the stones, the Woman is robed like a goddess; light streams from Lord Shardik’s body upon the kneeling children, and the little girl smi
les as though in her sleep, nestling between the strong, protecti
ng limbs. The fire burns lambent, the regular wavelets lap white as wool upon the strand. Perhaps - who can tell? - this is indeed the truth, sprung like an oak from an acorn long vanished into the earth: from the ragged, muttering peasants (one or two already edging away to the evening chores), the half-comprehending soldiers obeying orders, their clothes and armour, conscientiously mended and burnished, showing every sign of a hard campaign and a forced march; from
Shouter
, trying for dear life to squeeze out a few tears; from Kelderek’s uncontrollable trembling, Melathys’ weary, dark-ringed eyes and homespun robe, from the grubby village flotsam bobbing in the shallows and the sorry huddle on the raft. These things were not remarked or felt at the time and now they have long disappeared, mere grains succeeded by the massive trunk above and the huge spread of roots below. And lost too - only to be guessed at now - are the words which Melathys spoke.

She spoke in Ortelgan,
a
tongue largely unknown to the Yeldashay, though understood well enough by the Tissarn villagers. First she uttered the traditional invocation of Quiso to Lord Shardik, followed by a sequence of prayers whose archaic and b
eautiful periods fell from her li
ps without hesitation. Then, turning to face her listeners and changing her voice to an even tone of narration, she spoke of the finding of Shardik on
Ortelga
and the saving of his life by the priestesses of Quiso; o
f his coming alive from the Stre
el; of his ordained suffering, and of the sacred death by which he had saved the heir of Sarkid and the enslaved children from the power of evil. Kelderek, listening, marvelled, less at her self-possession than at the authority and humility present together in her voice and bearing. It was as though the girl whom he knew had relinquished herself to become a vessel brimmed with words old, smooth and universal as stones; and by these to allow mankind’s grief and pity for death, the common lot of all creatures, to flow not from but through her. Out of her mouth the dead, it seemed, spoke to the unborn,
as sand pours grain by grain through the waist of an hour-glass. The sand was run at last and the girl stood motionless, head bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped at her waist.

The silence was broken by the voice of the young flag-officer beginning, like a precentor, the beautiful Yeldashay lament sometimes called ‘The Grief of Deparioth’, but more widely known, perhaps, as ‘The Tears of Sarkid’. This, which tells of the sacred birth and the youth
of U-Deparioth, liberator of Ye
lda and founder of the House of Sarkid, is sung to this day, though perhaps it has altered through the centuries; just as, they say, the shapes of the constellations undergo change, no man living long enough to perceive it. The soldiers took up the lament,
their
solemn chanting growing louder and echoing from the Deelguy shore.

Among the standing corn-sheaves she lay down,

In bitter grief the friendless girl lay down,

Wounded, alone, the curse of the Street upon her,

She bore the hero Deparioth, when Yelda lay in chains.

The soldier beside Kelderek was singing with the rest, the words, coming to him unthinkingly, expressing for him his sense of forming a part of things greater than himself, his people, his homeland and those memories, his and no other man’s, that made up his
little
share of human life.