Authors: Robert Holdstock
“Thanks. I think I’ll take it.” Richard looked at Jason and shook his head vigorously. “Tell him that if he releases all that is living on the
Argo,
and waits a full day, then I’ll talk to him again and consider his offer. Tell him I do not travel with prisoners.”
Jason raised his hands, on hearing this, then patted his groin as he crouched, a clear signal that Richard could take his request, perceived as the lie it was, and post it back to Shadoxhurst.
A look in Jason’s eye alarmed and alerted Richard. There had been the faintest of glances upwards, the merest shake of the man’s head. Richard twisted quickly, at the crouch, and was in time to see the faint shadow of a man pull back from the top of the cliff above Old Stone Hollow.
Damn! They had found a way up. Perhaps an arrow had been nocked and pointed at Richard’s exposed back all the time that he had been talking. The compound was totally vulnerable to attack from above.
For a moment Jason picked at his lower teeth with thumb and index finger, examining the fragments of fish that he hooked from his blackening ivories before sucking them away. At length he said something to Sarin, who announced, “He’s sorry you won’t see sense, but in fact your magic is probably of less use than he’d thought. He’ll not bother you again. He has a centaur to hunt, an escapee. He’s sorry, but he has decided not to give me to you. The
Argo
will be repaired in a day—I can’t believe that’s true—and then they’ll be gone. If you can help me, please help me soon. Death or release, I don’t care which. That bow looks like a giant’s, but if you can shoot it, shoot it.”
“Be in no doubt of that,” Richard said, and as he spoke he realised, was almost shocked to realise, that he
would
kill her. “I’m in no doubt that it’s what you want.”
“Try to board the
Argo
tonight, to talk with our oracle. It might help you plan a strategy. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Brutally, Jason tugged the Tall Grass Speaker to her feet. Again, as the night before, he tossed the remnants of the food to the dishevelled man in Old Stone Hollow, grinning, waving a hand goodbye.
Throughout the day the noise of repair continued, and the day passed. As night drew in, and torches were lit, Richard armed himself with sword and knife and spent nearly an hour approaching the shore with the utmost caution, his eyes so acutely tuned to the darkness that not even a fly could have moved without his seeing it.
Hera watched him from between her braziers; the lake water lapped calmly; a slight breeze shifted the
Argo,
which creaked in its “dry dock,” the rigging moving and slapping against the wood.
All things were quite peaceful, the argonauts sleeping below their skin tents, one man on watch, but his gaze fixed on the shimmering light of Wide Water Hollowing. Richard crept aboard the ship, past the heavily slumbering form of the smith, and swung through the deck hatch, where Sarin’s tiny hands held his legs as he descended.
“Do you have the small fire?” she asked in a whisper, and Richard produced Lytton’s lighter, striking flame to a compact torch, which illuminated the cramped hold and displayed the clutter of purloined goods.
The rolls of fleeces were stacked against one wall. Richard picked his way carefully through a crate of armour, mostly helmets patterned with designs that seemed to move with a life of their own. Clay discs, and papyrus scrolls were in another box, the lost languages of lost kings. There were bone horns, glass vases, gold amphorae, necklets and circlets of glittering gemstones, woven carpets with intricate and puzzling designs, such simple things as bunches of reed and rush, two sets of pipes as played by Pan, drums with patterned skins, horribly reminiscent of the shaman drum that the Sons of Kyrdu had once destroyed, and in the far corner, tossed aside as if of no interest, a set of bone pipes with a leather air sac that Richard recognised at once, and with a terrible shock.
They were Lacan’s! He saw the black rings on the bass pipe, recognised the peculiarity of the design, felt sick with fear and apprehension. Lacan’s favourite possession, here possessed by the butcher of the Aegean.
“What do you know about these?” he whispered urgently to a startled Sarin.
She peered at the bagpipes, then shrugged. “They came on board with Tisamenus, just two days ago. They were taken from a dead man. Jason thinks they can summon the gods, but he doesn’t know which gods, nor how to make the right sounds with them. He’s keeping them in case someone recognises their function.”
Richard’s heart had sunk at Sarin’s words. His eyes filled with tears, his mouth went dry, as he thought of the big man, with his broad sense of humour, dead now. He said quietly, “A dead man? Are you sure?”
“From a corpse. Yes. Peleus had watched the fight from a distance. I was in the hold when I heard him talking to Jason. Whoever it was, he put up a huge fight and broke Tisamenus’ voice box, a rib or two, and two fingers. Tisamenus cut him almost completely in two. I’m sorry … I think he must have been a friend.”
“A dear one. The very best…”
As he placed Lacan’s pipes down, a touch of breath passed through the bag and the deep pipe whined briefly, a last lament, shocking Sarin and reducing Richard to a posture of frozen terror. They listened for movement above, but after a few minutes all remained quiet. “Be careful,” she said, and led the way to the rear compartment.
In the half-light, the sad figures shifted; a centaur tried to rise, but failed, watching Richard through eyes similar to the creature’s that had escaped two days before. This one was female, though. A woman with small horns curled up in a corner; two men, wearing the sort of leathers and greens that suggested they were forest outlaws, were breathing softly as they sat against the hull, all life gone from their eyes. They were chained, but the most protection was afforded to a brawny, silver-haired, silver-armed man, who was held by arms and legs to the floor; the glint of metal on his right arm, the gleam of silver in his mouth, the anger in his eyes, the silence of him, all confirmed that this was Silver Arm, of Irish myth, and Jason was lucky indeed to have subdued him.
There were others, slender, broken shapes, some dressed, some naked, none of them recognisable as to their mythological or legendary natures, all story drained from them, stripped from them, leaving them not fairy-like, as Lytton might have imagined, but dead, corrupt in that most human of ways in which all hope is taken, and all life is made meaningless.
A voice sang sweetly and softly, and by the faint torchlight Richard looked at the far wall and saw five heads dangling by the hair, two of them clearly rotten, two others, red-bearded, alive but silent, watching him through furious eyes, the fifth a thin, youthful face framed with curls of golden hair, beardless, smiling, eyes sparkling as it sang.
But as Richard drew closer so what had seemed signs of youth fell away, and he realised that he was looking at a skull so drawn that it seemed smooth, and yet there
was
vigour in the eyes, the same vigour as in the tumble of thick, sweet-smelling hair. The mouth worked, the thin lips puckering, licked by a yellowed tongue. No breath could have supplied the voice, since the neck was ragged and blackened with blood. Still, though, the head sang, a soft voice, the words meaningless, until suddenly it sang, slowly and carefully,
“Two bloody nicks … to the back of his … neck … all for the sake … of his lady’s green … girdle…”
Alex’s song, from the school play!
The head’s eyes filled with sadness and followed Richard as he dropped to a crouch, staring at the monstrosity, asking “Who are you?”
The sad gaze swivelled toward Sarin, who said, “It’s Orpheus. He’s my closest friend. Once he was Jason’s friend too, but no longer. Jason says he still loves him, but he searched for a year to find the rocks where this head was wedged, after being torn off by wild women at the gates of Hades, and he stole it, and will sell it. Orpheus can see the fates, so if you help him he will help you. He can see into men’s hearts.”
“I know. It just happened…”
Behind him one of the green hunters stirred, reacting to the sound of voices. He spoke weakly, the words fluid but incomprehensible for a moment, “Kenna thow helpa? Kenna thow helpa?” until the dialect resolved into the desperate plea for help that it was.
Sarin shushed him, then turned back to Orpheus, stroking the skull through the tight flesh. “Sing for our friend. He can help us.”
Orpheus spoke in his own language, and Sarin looked grim as she replied to the wounded hero. Turning to Richard, she explained, “I told him we’d take him too. We’ll find a wizard to build a mechanical body for him. Does your magic extend that far?”
“I’m afraid not. Sorry. And my belief systems are stretched to credibility just seeing what I’m seeing.”
Orpheus sang again, a haunting tune, his eyes closed for a moment, then opening widely and staring at Richard. The voice changed, the words were English, and spoken, now: “He is with the stone faces, in a place of stone. He is with the tree that runs and speaks. He watches and waits for his father by the oak shroud where the bird spits. He is imprisoned by his own ghosts.”
“Alex? Can you see my son?” Richard crouched eagerly before the head, all thoughts of the impossibility of this situation gone as he detected a reference to Alex again. “Tell me more. Please! How do I get to him?”
But Orpheus was singing softly again, and in his own language, tears running from the hollow eyes.
* * *
A living head. No breath being pumped from lungs to activate the vocal cords, but a head, nevertheless, that sang and spoke, and gave oracles, and had seen Alex. Was this a dream? Had Jason spiked the wine with so subtle a drug that Richard was now existing in two states of consciousness, the real and the falsely lucid?
He scrambled back through the gully and into Old Stone Hollow.
A talking head! Orpheus himself, rent by the nails of the Thracian women after he had offended them in some way. Was it because he had looked back into Hades after abandoning Eurydice? Richard couldn’t remember the legend. The head had been thrown into the river Hebrus, had become wedged between rocks and continued to sing for years. Jason, in his new profession as collector of oddities, had sought the oracle that was his old friend, and would trade it to the highest bidder. Richard, in his own way, needed to purloin the head, to have it, to hold it, to use it to find Alex.
But how could he alone invade the
Argo,
destroy the argonauts, and liberate the oppressed creatures in its dungeon? The only way, surely, was to entice the crew of the
Argo
into the defensive field around the Station. But they would be wary, now, having seen the earth itself consume Peleus.
At dawn, the nesting herons in the woods behind the Station woke him with the clattering of their bills. A hard wind was blowing through the high grass, and from the cave below the cliff, from the hollow itself, came the sound of voices, distorted and haunting. He had spent a night dreaming of Alex and Helen, and in those dreams he had felt effective in their rescue. Now, in this breezy, mournful dawn, he felt the wood tug at him, sensed smells and detected the minutiae of movement in the forest that suggested he was becoming more attuned. His edge vision was restless again, and the breath was tight in his lungs. He felt happiest with his hands spread on the cold earth, as if this allowed strength into him. The taste in his mouth seemed to be satisfied by lapping quickly at the dew on the tall grass and he scampered on hands and feet, over a rough hummock that he didn’t recognise, letting the moisture drench him, freshen him and invigorate him …
He stood suddenly, slapping at his cheeks.
What the hell am I doing? I can’t afford to go bosky!
The bill-clattering faded. The breeze still disturbed him as he walked through the grass to the closed gates and eased them open. There was a cloth-wrapped object on the far bank, another gift perhaps from the nervous argonauts. Had they come during the night, or at dawn? He had slept so heavily …
His mind’s eye began to clear, and the hummock in the Station resolved into the unnatural and new feature that it was. He had crawled right over it, moments ago, when he had been lapping up the sun-dew. He went back, now, back through the maze path, looking for the crushed grass that told of his bosky-transit, and there, suddenly, was the body of the man. It was overgrown. The suckers of ivy and grapevine had penetrated the crumbling flesh. The man was sprawled on his side, one arm behind his back, still holding a bronze sword. His neck was bent back, his mouth agape and sprouting dog mercury. The grey hair was still visible on the decaying skull, a purple headband identifying the dead man as one of the argonauts.
So: you brought me a gift, then crossed the river to kill me …
He picked up the sword, removed the headband from the skull, which puffed into dust as he struck it with the back of his hand. With the band around the hilt of the bronze sword he crossed the stream and investigated the offering; an elaborately decorated long bone, the etchings ingrained with gold, the bulbous head, where it had once articulated in a hip joint, shaped into a grinning face. Richard covered the grotesque bone, unsure whether this was intended to frighten him, or had been offered as a gift in exchange for some of his own magic.
Distantly, a hunting horn sounded, not the shrill, metallic sound of the twentieth century, but a duller, more resonant call that ranged in tone and was clearly produced by the bellowing of a man through the grooved horn of an animal. The sound came from beyond the Sanctuary. Richard’s hearing was acute, perhaps because of the isolation he had experienced for the last few months. He sensed that there were five men running. A creature on four legs fled from them. They crashed through undergrowth and cantered over clearer ground, and for a few minutes Richard stood by the slope, turning to follow the distant action.
Jason was determined to have his centaur back.
On the beach, the
Argo
was now half in the lake water. The mast was up, the cross-beam tied, the sail rigged and furled. The effigy of Hera had been replaced on board, and glared inland across a deck that was piled high with supplies, ready for stowing. The tent was still pegged to the shore, and several argonauts moved about domestic business, while a circle of four guards crouched, weapons in hand, very alert as they watched the wood. One of them was certainly aware of Richard, who observed the proceedings from his special place, but the man made no movement towards him. The smith was in the small skiff with another man, peering down through the lake waters, a hundred yards from the shore.