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He noted that she was afraid of him, but not in any way that could appeal to him.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s that.’ He gave her uneasy sideways glances, as if waiting for a comment.
‘Is that really what you do?’ she enquired. ‘Or is it because you don’t like me?’
At this he gave her a look which was all appeal, and he sat on the bottom of the bed, and pounded it hard, with his fists.
She saw, at last, that he was a boy, he was not much more than a small boy. She saw him as one of her own half-grown sons, and for the first time, her heart softened.
Looking at him with the tears still full in her great eyes, she said, ‘You know, I think there might be something you could learn from us.’
He gave a sort of shake of his great shaggy head, as if too much was reaching his ears all at once. But he remained leaning forward, not looking at her, but listening.
‘For one thing, have you never heard that one may choose the times to conceive children?’
He winced. But only because again she talked of children. He pounded the bed with one fist, and stopped.
‘You did not know that the nature of a child may be made by its conception?’
He shook his head and hung it. He sighed.
‘If I am pregnant now, as I could be, then this child will have nothing to thank us for.’
He suddenly flung himself down on the bed, prone, and lay there, arms outstretched.
Again, a long silence. The smell of their coupling was a small rank reminder of lust, and he looked up at her. She sat leaning against the wall, very pale, tired, and there was a bruise by her mouth, where his thumb had pressed.
He let out a groan. ‘It seems there is something I can learn from you,’ he said, and it was not in a child’s voice.
She nodded. Looking at each other, they saw only that they were unhappy, and did not know what to expect from the other.
She it was who got up, sat by him on the couch, and laid her small hands on both sides of his great neck as he still lay prone, chin on his fist.
He turned over. It was an effort for him to face her.
He took her hands, and lay there on his back, she sitting quietly close to him. She tried to smile, but her lips trembled, and tears rolled down her face. He gave an exclamation, and pulled her down beside him. He was astounded that his own eyes had tears in them.
He tried to comfort this strange woman. He felt her small hands on his shoulders, in a pressure of consolation and pity.
Thus they fell asleep together, worn out by it all.
This was the first lovemaking of these two, the event which was fusing the imaginations of two realms.
He woke, and was at once alert. His senses were anxiously at work, mapping the space that surrounded him where it should not, coming to terms with sounds that suggested whispering, danger. His tent flap had been left open … but the opening was higher than it should be: his tent had been torn away by a wind, or an attack? Water … water flowing, and rising: the canals were overflowing, would he find himself standing in water? Ready to accept the cold wet clasp of a calamitous flood around his ankles, he swung his feet over onto a dry floor, and had taken several strides forward, calling out in the hoarse shocked voice of nightmare for his orderly, when he saw that he had mistaken the high curve of the central pillar where it met the ceiling for the tent opening. At once he remembered everything. He turned around in the dark, believing that the woman Al·Ith could be mocking him. But it was too dark even to see the couch. What he wanted then was simply to stride out of that place and not come back. With the understanding it was the fountains tinkling he had been taking for floods and inundations, the panic thought overcame him that he was not himself. He was undermined, unmanned, and made a coward. Bitterness shook him; his mouth was dry with it. Quite simply he was appalled—by the situation, by himself, by her. Yet, if he knew nothing else, he knew obedience. An order had brought him here to this effeminate pavilion, and duty must take him back to that couch. Convinced that she was lying awake and somehow watching him, he nevertheless took cautious steps in the dark until his shins encountered the softness of the couch. He slid himself to a half-sitting position, and began feeling the couch for her limbs — for her. Then he was groping all over the surface for her and finding nothing. She had escaped! Relief! That could only be her fault, and not his! He did not have to do anything! But then, these thoughts were chased away by indignation, and by chase lust. If she had escaped she must be caught. The confusions and indecisions of the last minutes came together in a surge of energy. He actually began a lively whistling — then thought she might be somewhere in the room, perhaps behind the pillar, watching him. And laughing. He swung around and strode to the pillar and felt all about with his hands. Nothing. Again he was about to raise his voice to call his orderly, and remembered that there were to be no servants here, no regular attendants. He did not mind about that: this king was happiest on campaign, a soldier among soldiers, and not marked out from them except that it was his task to make decisions. What he did mind was having to be alone with her without attendants. Shut up with a woman. This woman. Who as a witch might certainly be somewhere in the room, seeing where he could not. Anger fed his decisiveness. He pulled his army cloak about him and strode to the door opening onto the fountains.
Awaking in the dark, he had not known the time. In the camps a sentry was ordered to halt outside his tent and to announce — not call out, but state — each half-hour. If he was awake, he needed to know where he was in the countries of the night. Which he did not enjoy: distrusted, in fact. He liked to put his head down soon after the evening meal and to sleep until first light, and to know nothing in between — but if awake for some reason, then he would wait for the low reassuring voice of the sentry.
Now he stood square in the archway, with the dark room behind him, looking out past the arches of the porticoes, and he knew at once that it was about an hour before dawn, although the sky had no moon or stars in it and low clouds hurried past. An irregular streak showed the long rectangle that was the pool where seven jets of water played. Irritation was remembered — almost claimed him again. The dimensions of this pavilion, its adjacent rooms, the approaches, the galleries surrounding it, the gardens, the many pools and fountains, the walks, and the steps and the levels — every one exactly specified, prescribed, measured, and all in the damnedest of measurements — everything in halves and quarters and bits and pieces, irregularities and unexpectedness. The architects, none of whom of course had built anything but army forts and towers and barracks for years, had been expected to mutiny. At any rate, this particular very long and narrow pool, or ditch, as he had muttered when he had seen the plans, had had seven jets prescribed for it. Not ten, or five, or twenty, but seven. And the long oval pool beyond it had three, of different sizes from each other … a clump of nine spice trees stood to one side of the pools, and under them he saw something shadowy and disturbing. But it was too big to be a woman. He heard movements, though. Just as he realized it was a horse — that damned horse! — his eyes had come to life enough to see that she was sitting quietly at the end of the long pool, between it and the oval pool, on a raised stone dais, or terrace, which was a circle that had a radius of exactly seven and a half feet. The masons building it had joked it would make a good bed. Oh, the jokes, the jokes, he had been sick of them, was sick to death of them, of the whole thing … he could not make out if she had seen him. But it occurred to him that if he had seen her, she could be expected to have seen him.
However, there was nothing ridiculous about his stance there, legs apart, arms folded, everything soldierly and correct.
It occurred to him that he was still alert and poised because his expectations of a chase, a pursuit, were not quieted in him: if there she sat, then he would not have to chase after her, poor draggled fugitive, across the marshes and puddles, with half the army after her, and he heading them all … so he let himself relax.
He was not going to make the first move, or greet her. He did not want to greet her. He did not feel friendly in the slightest. He did not remember the moment of tenderness they had shared, and his present self could only have repudiated it … he had been standing there for some time. Minutes. She had made no move. He could see her face glimmering whitely there. That dreary dark dress of hers was of course absorbed by the night. He believed she might be sitting there hating him. He could smell now the damp breeze that always stirred just before dawn. He loved to be awakened by that little wind, which crept so softly over the earth, setting the bushes astir, bringing the smell of grass and water. When sleeping out on marches he always woke to it, contrasting it pleasantly with the rainy winds that drove across this flat land of his sometimes for weeks at a time … he had, without knowing he was going to, taken a few steps out and along the edge of the pool. He had not taken his sandals off at all, and now he was unable to walk quietly and surprise her. But still she said nothing. He had come up to her, past the seven silly jets of water, and up to the edge of the little terrace, before she turned her head, and remarked, ‘It is pleasant sitting here, Ben Ata.’
‘You didn’t sleep well, I see!’
‘I never sleep more than two hours, or three.’
This annoyed him: of course she would be at home in the night — what else!
As there was nothing else to do, he sat down on the dais, but on the edge of it, away from her.
Now he could see that there were two horses under the spice trees, hers — the black one — and another, white: the black one he could see only because it stood very close to the other, making a black horse-shaped shadow against the white.
‘I see that in your country you have horses the way we have dogs!’
‘No, Ben Ata.’ He could hear from her voice — he could hardly see her face — that she was conciliatory, or even afraid? His blood did leap a little at the thought she was afraid, but lay subdued again. He heard himself sigh. A dismal weight seemed to press him down. All his elation had gone. He was sensing with the whole of him, his memories and his hopes too, how alien was this woman: how the strangeness of her did weigh him down, how she oppressed him. He was feverishly casting about in his memories for girls like this one, that he could match with her, to make some sort of guide for himself, for he really did intend to try and understand her. But there was nothing there remotely like her. Like his mother? Certainly not! She had been foolish — he supposed. But then he had not seen her, really, since he was seven and had been sent to the soldiers to train. His sisters? He had not seen them either since then, except for brief glimpses on trips home; and they had married far away on the outer reaches of the Zone. The wives of his officers? The point was, he could not remember being discommoded by a woman, and above all it was what this one did. She never reacted as his expectations dictated. He was as jumpy and edgy as a badly handled horse … horses again. He did not really like horses. Not that he remembered wondering before if he liked them or not, they were there.
‘Ben Ata, when I got up out of bed and came out here, I saw my horse standing here by the fountain. I thought he had not been properly looked after but it was not that. He was not hungry or thirsty …’
He, and she, both heard the breath let slowly out of his lungs, not so much in exasperation as in sheer wonder at it all, a sort of stunned imposed patience.
‘… but he was disturbed in his mind and he had jumped out of the enclosure and come to try and find me. That is why I woke, I expect. But while I have been trying to find out exactly what’s wrong, it isn’t easy. I told him to go and fetch one of his friends from the enclosure …’
He had let out his breath again: it was a cautious sigh.
‘I am surprised,’ said he, in a soft, tentative voice, as if trying out this new key in sarcasm, ‘that you didn’t go down to the stables and fetch the horse yourself.’
‘But, Ben Ata, you know that I cannot leave this place. Not without my shield. I am confined to the pavilions and the gardens. Otherwise the air of your Zone would make me very ill.’
‘All right, all right, I had forgotten. No, I hadn’t … but … oh, for goodness’ sake, do …’
Oaths and expletives of all kinds were dying on his tongue, and he heard what he had said as if some foreigner had spoken.
‘He went off. It took some time, but he has brought this white horse with him. Do you know this horse?’
‘No.’
‘They came up the hill just before you came to stand in the door there. Now look, Ben Ata.’
He could in fact see now that the two beasts stood quietly side by side, their heads hanging. They were the picture of despondency.
‘I shall go to them.’ And she was off down through the fountains on bare feet. He could see her easily now against the eastern sky. A vast greyness covered the land. Shreds of cloud sped past low overhead. He followed her, not at all willingly, and the two beasts, seeing her there, came together up from the trees and stood before her, their heads drooping. He watched her caress her black horse, and the white one; bend to speak to the white horse and the black one. He saw how she laid her hands on their damp slow flesh, and put her arms around their necks as she stood between them. Then she came away, and clapped her hands, once, and they turned and cantered off down the hill, both rising at the same moment in a great jump that took them over the stone walls of their corral.
She turned to face him. He could now see her clearly. Her small face was very pale, and worried. Her hair was loose and damp down her shoulders, with a fine mist on it. By her mouth was the bruise. As he saw it the wildest need seized him to crush her to him — but not in lust or in love, far from it. A wave of brutality almost conquered him. But he felt her small hand in his, and he was utterly stupefied by it. Perhaps as a small child another had put a confiding friendly hand in his, and not since.
He could not believe it! While he had been holding in impulses of pure disliking hostility, she put her hand in his, as if it was a natural thing to do. His own hand remained stiff and rejecting.
She then hastened her pace and went on in front of him, past flowers, past the many jetting fountains, till she reached the raised round place where she sat, tucking her bare feet in under her skirt.
His thoughts were all a riot of amazed expostulation. This great queen, this conquest — for he could not help feeling her being here as one — was more poor and plain than the girls who herded the deer.
She looked straight up at him, insistent, troubled. ‘Ben Ata, there is something very wrong.’
Again the heavy sigh from him. ‘If you say so.’
‘Yes. Yes, there is. Tell me, your herds, your animals, have there been reports of illness?’
He now looked straight at her, serious, in thought. ‘Yes, there were reports. Wait though — no one seemed to know what was wrong.’
‘And the birth rate among them?’
‘It’s down. Yes, it is.’ Even as he confirmed her, he could not resist the jeer: ‘And what did the two nags have to tell you?’
‘They don’t know what is wrong. But they are low in spirits, all of them. They have lost the will to mate … ’ As the obligatory jest became imminent, she pressed on, dismissing it — and him, he felt, in wild rebellion at her — with, ‘No, do listen, Ben Ata. It is all the animals. All. And the birds. And as we know, that means the plant kingdom, too, or if not now, soon …’
‘Do we know?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Despite the feeble attempt at a jeer, in fact his eyes most seriously engaged hers, in responsible enquiry. He believed her. He was alerted, and ready to do what he could. This seriousness brought him down beside her, closer than before, but not as if he felt any likelihood of comfort or reassurance from her touch.
‘Are as many children being born?’
‘No, there are not. There has been a long steady decrease.’
‘Yes, and with us, too.’
‘Outlying parts of our Zone are lying derelict.’
‘Yes, and with us, too.’
They were silent a long while. Through the drenched air of the eastern sky, light struggled from the rising sun. The clouds were a pale wet gold, and a yellowish haze lay everywhere. The spice trees were spangled with rainbows and shafts of opaline light pierced the banks of fog rising from the marshes. The fountains splashed on water, and their noise seemed subdued by the general damp.
‘I suppose it is quite pretty,’ she said in the smallest of dismayed voices, and suddenly he let out a bellow of a laugh, but it was not unfriendly, far from it. ‘Oh, come now, it isn’t as bad as that,’ he said. ‘You’ll see, when the sun is up, and things have dried off. We have some very pleasant days down here, you know.’
‘I hope so! Feel my dress, Ben Ata!’
But this invitation put them back again. It was certainly not coquetry, and to be invited to feel her dress for any other reason affronted him. He took a fold of the dark blue stuff between thumb and finger, and pronounced it damp.
‘Ben Ata, we have gone wrong somewhere. Both our Zones. Badly. What are we going to do?’
His hand dropped away. He frowned. ‘Why don’t they tell us what is wrong, quite simply, and be done with it. And then we could put it right.’ He observed her very small wry smile. ‘Well, and what is wrong with that?’
‘I think we are supposed to think it out for ourselves.’
‘But why! What for! What is the sense of it! It wastes time.’
‘That’s not how things work — I think that must be it,’ she almost whispered.
‘How do you know?’ But as he asked, he observed himself that his question was already answered. ‘How long is it since you had an Order?’
‘So long that no one can remember. But there are old stories. And songs,’ she said.
‘Well, I certainly can’t remember anything. When I became king nothing of the sort was told me. When the Order arrived I remembered that they have to be obeyed. That I did know. But that was all.’
‘In my lifetime there has been nothing. Nor in my mother’s.’
‘And hers?’
‘Not for generations of the Mothers.’
‘Ah,’ he said, brisk and noncommittal.
‘You know, I think that things are very serious. Very bad. Dangerous. They must be!’
‘You think they are?’
‘Well, for us to be together like this. Ordered to be. Don’t you see?’
Now he was silent again. He was frowning. He sighed, without knowing he did, and it was from the effort of unaccustomed thought — he was not used to speculation on these lines. As for her, she watched him: this Ben Ata, the man who sat quiet, thinking, trying to puzzle out the meaning of their dilemma — this man she felt she could like. Respect. Again her hand went out and into his, in an impulse of friendliness, and his great hand closed over hers like a bird trap. It opened at once and she saw him look down at their two hands in incredulity. Then he gave her the most helpless, unhappy glance.
Now she sighed, briskly withdrew her hand, and stood up.
She turned her back on the yellow and gold skies of the east, and stared up past him into the sky. She was looking up at the peaks and heights of her own realm. ‘Ohhhh,’ she sighed out, ‘look … I had no idea … I did not have any idea …‘
The mountains of Zone Three climbed more than a third of the way to the zenith. She stood with her head bent back, gazing up at the towering lit heights there. The rising sun was making them blaze and glitter, and the sharp points of the uttermost peaks seemed to be heaped with clouds that shone pink and red and gold—but they were not clouds, these were the piled snows of a thousand years. And low down against this mass lay the dark edge, rock-fringed, fort-fringed, which was the edge of the escarpment she had ridden down only the day before. The vast plain that lay between the escarpment and the foothills of the plateau, which was itself the low base for the innumerable mountain masses of our land—this was not visible at all. One would not know it was there. The inhabitants of this low watery Zone could never imagine, gazing up at that scene of a hundred mountain ranges, the infinite variations of a landscape and country that were not to be seen by them at all. Al·Ith was standing there, her hands cradling her bent back head, gazing up, up, and she was smiling with delight and longing, and weeping with happiness as she gazed.
Ben Ata gazed at her. He was uncomfortable.
‘Don’t do that,’ he said gruffly.
Reluctantly, she returned her gaze downward, and saw him disapproving. ‘But why not?’
‘It is not right.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘We do not encourage it.’
‘What?’
‘Cloud gathering, we call it.’
‘You mean, people don’t look up at all that … that glory?’
‘It is weakening.’
