Editors Notes
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- EyesOnly
1 - King Bromios and Woman-Who-Talks-to-Snakes
This is the tale of a jackass and a young bean counter, a girl of marvels and mysteries, horsemen swift as wind, Goat Folk, Daughters of Morning, voyages, tempests, terrors, disasters. And the occasional rainbow. But all this is yet to come, and our tale begins with King Bromios and Woman-Who-Talks-to-Snakes. So: When Bromios was chosen king of Arkadia, long custom obliged him to seek a prophecy from the oracle pythoness, Woman-Who-Talks-to-Snakes, in her cave at Mount Lema. Bromios, for his part, would have gladly avoided the whole squirmy business. He was a heavyfisted, barrel-chested man with a big voice and a hard head; no coward, certainly, but any thought of snakes made his flesh creep.
His royal soothsayers, Calchas and Phobos, insisted.
"Allow me to remind Your Majesty," said Calchas, "when our Bear tribe forefathers came to Arkadia, they found a shocking state of affairs: a country governed by councils of women, all devoted to that figment of female imagination, the Lady of Wild Things. Knowing it only proper for men to command and women to obey-a simple truth that women seem incapable of grasping our heroic warriors overthrew the councils and made themselves lords of the land. Since then, your subjects have enjoyed the rule of kings-guided, naturally, by the unerring advice of their soothsayers."
"The women, however, cling foolishly to their old ways," added Phobos. "They still believe in the Lady of Wild Things; and the pythoness is venerated as highly as the Lady herself."
"Seeking your prophecy is a mere formality," said Calchas, waving a plump, bejeweled hand, "observed only because the women expect it. Otherwise, they would be most unsettled."
"They're women," said Bromios, "so what does it matter?"
"An alarming number of men also revere the Lady." Phobos pressed his thin lips and shook his head. "Which is absurd, since she does not exist. Has any of us ever seen her? Received the slightest sign from her? Of course not."
"What better proof?" said Calchas. "If she existed, I and my dear colleague would, surely, be the first to know."
Calchas and Phobos were authorities in such matters. They were skilled at finding signs and portents in stars, clouds, flights of birds, and chicken gizzards. On the death of the old king, the pair consulted one of the oracular chickens, nicely roasted, understood that Bromios was to be monarch, and so proclaimed him.
"As for the Lady's followers," Calchas went on, "their devotion to her lessens their devotion to Your Majesty. They should be encouraged-vigorously encouraged to see the error of their ways. This, I foretell, will happen when the time is ripe. At the moment, it would be imprudent to rub them the wrong way."
"Your Majesty must visit the pythoness," said Phobos. "A question of state policy."
"Policy, policy, whatever that is," grumbled Bromios. As the old king's war leader, he preferred yelling and smacking heads to sitting on a throne. More comfortable using his fists instead of his brains, he had been tempted to decline the honor. Calchas and Phobos promised that he would seldom, if ever, have to think at all. Few kings did. It was not required.
"I won't have to touch any snakes?" said Bromios.
"No, no, no." Calchas brushed aside the notion.
"Nothing like that. You go, you listen to some nonsensical babbling, and you come back. Goodwill all around, and everyone satisfied."
"You're sure about the snakes?" said Bromios.
Next morning, Bromios rode the half-day's journey from his palace in Metara to Mount Lema, his bodyguard galloping with him, Calchas and Phobos carried in litters at the rear. As the soothsayers advised, Bromios wore full regalia: the bearskin cloak, the necklace of bear teeth and claws, the bear's head helmet. His leather leggings were bound with thongs, his thick-soled boots made him look even taller than he was. At his side hung the great two handed sword. Bromios himself had cheered up and felt royally scornful of any stupid old hag of a snake-woman.
When the road ended, he had to climb off his horse and go tramping down an overgrown, winding path. Calchas and Phobos, on either side, guided him deeper into the woods. The weather had turned mild, though streaks of snow still whitened the upper slopes of Mount Lema. The Sky Bear had rolled the sun high into the cloudless blue, golden shafts of light bathed the clearing and danced over the pool at the mountain's foot. Even so, Bromios suddenly shivered. He had the nasty impression that many beady little eyes watched him from the bushes.
Near the edge of the pool stood a ring of stone columns and broken archways. Taking his arms, Calchas and Phobos led him past these old ruins to a tumble of huge boulders. The entry to the cave was a narrow, jagged cleft in the rock. What with his heavy cloak, he could barely squeeze through. No sooner had he stepped inside than flames sprang up and ghostly white shapes floated toward him.
He stumbled back, flung one hand to his eyes, the other to his sword hilt. Then he blew out his breath in relief. The ghosts were two small girls wearing white tunics and holding torches. The chamber in which he found himself was large, reaching some distance into the shadows.
"Bromios?" A high, clear voice echoed all around him. Bromios answered with an angry growl. A king should not be startled like that. Calchas spoke up. "Yes. Here is the Bear King, Lord of Arkadia. He will see the pythoness."
A third, taller girl dressed in a blue robe had appeared as if from nowhere. In each hand, she carried a clay cup. With a graceful gesture, she offered one of the vessels to Bromios.
"Drink, O Bear King. This is the Water of Forgetting."
Bromios shifted uneasily and scowled at Calchas. "You didn't tell me about this part," he muttered. "What's the brew? Poison, for all I know."
"To cleanse your mind of all concerns for the world outside," said the girl. "Think only of this moment, here and now."
"Drink it, drink it," whispered Calchas. "It's plain water."
"Not thirsty," snapped Bromios.
"Drink it anyway," said Phobos. "Let them get on with their rigmarole." Bromios made a face and gulped down the contents. He licked his teeth. Water it was, and icy.
The girl handed him the other cup. "The Water of Remembering, so that you may forever recall what you will see and hear."
Bromios swallowed hastily and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The two little girls raised their torches and beckoned him to follow. With Calchas and Phobos nudging him from behind, Bromios trod warily to the rear of the cave, where stone steps led downward. The girls descended easily and lightly, but Bromios nearly lost his footing on the stones worn smooth and slippery. He must have drunk the water too quickly, for his head pounded and his stomach gurgled. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. Even under the heavy fur cloak, Bromios felt so cold, so cold.
The steps ended on the earthen floor of a long, domed chamber. Flames from iron braziers made the walls seem awash in blood. A sickly sweet smell of incense choked his nostrils and made his eyes water. He stopped in his tracks. No one had told him to, he simply did. A dozen paces ahead was a deep recess hewn into the living rock. Hunched on a high, three-legged stool sat the pythoness.
Moldering black robes shrouded the frail, stoop shouldered figure; covering her face was a mask of polished silver crowned with a tangle of silver serpents. In the shadows behind her, Bromios thought he glimpsed the rolling coils of some horrid reptile.
The pythoness straightened and shook her head, as if rousing from a long dream. The gleaming mask turned full upon Bromios: a woman's features, a calm expression frozen in the metal. When at last she spoke, the voice rang hollow.
"Bear King, do you truly desire your prophecy?"
"That's why I'm here, isn't it?" grumbled Bromios, adding under his breath, "Why else would I come into this foul den?"
"So be it, then." The pythoness paused. When she spoke again, her tone was thin and faint, the words seeming to come from some great distance:
"O Bromios, Bromios, Your life-threads are spun. A city in ashes, a king in rags, And then your course is run."
The pythoness bowed her head and folded her arms. Bromios waited, but she remained silent. "Let's have the rest of it," Bromios demanded impatiently. "There is nothing more."
"What?" cried Bromios. "That's all? Ashes? Rags?"
"As you heard." Bromios was no quick thinker, but it took hardly anytime for him to grasp that he had been given something unpleasant. "Take it back," he ordered. "Give me a better one."
"I cannot do so."
"You will!" shouted Bromios. "Don't tell me ashes and rags. I won't stomach that."
"I fear you must."
"Change it!" roared Bromios. "Right now! Do as I command, you scruffy old hag." He stepped forward, hand on sword.
"Silence!" The pythoness slid from her perch to stand straight and tall. She pointed at Bromios. "No closer. I am Woman-Who-Talks-to-Snakes!"
Bromios felt his words shrivel in his throat and his fingers freeze on the hilt. With all his might, he tried to draw the weapon. In vain.
"Take your prophecy and leave." The voice of the pythoness filled the grotto and thundered in the king's ears. Her eyes blazed through the slits in the mask. The crown of serpents seemed to writhe and hiss. "Go. Before I lose my temper and set the snakes on you."
Bromios had been standing with one foot rooted to the ground, the other poised in mid stride. Now he spun around and plunged headlong up the steps, Calchas and Phobos scrambling behind. He burst from the cave, went crashing through the undergrowth as if a dozen serpents were at his heels, and galloped for Metara as fast as his horse's legs could carry him.
Safe inside his palace, behind the bolted doors of his inner chambers, Bromios vented his Wrath. He roared, ground his teeth, shook his fists, kicked over tables, smashed bowls and goblets, all the while cursing and threatening Woman-Who-Talks-to-Snakes.
"If I could get my hands around her skinny neck!" he shouted. "I want her rooted out! Put down, cut off, done away with!"
While Bromios ranted on, Calchas and Phobos exchanged glances. "I wonder," Calchas murmured, raising an eyebrow, "if this might indeed be the moment? Has the time turned ripe sooner than we hoped?"
"To end the pernicious influence of the Lady of Wild Things?" said Phobos. "Yes, dear colleague, I believe the perfect opportunity has just been presented to us."
With the enthusiastic approval of his soothsayers, Bromios sent warriors to Mount Lerna. They filled the pool to the brim with dirt and gravel, stopped up the spring that fed it, and toppled the circle of columns. The cave was empty. They piled boulders to block the entrance.
They could not find the pythoness. Woman-Who-Talks-to-Snakes and her maidens had vanished as completely as if they had never been there. The only trace of her, which the warriors carried back to Bromios, was the silver mask.
It appeared to be smiling.
2 - Lucian and the Jackass
During the weeks that followed, Bromios turned more gloomy than wrathful. Worn out by roaring curses and breaking furniture, he spent most of the days chewing his nails and pacing his chambers, demanding to know why his warriors, presently scouring the countryside, had not yet laid hold of Woman-Who-Talks-to-Snakes. Also he sent heralds to towns and villages, proclaiming it forbidden under pain of death to observe practices or customs having anything to do with the Lady of Wild Things: a heavy blow to wise-women, healers, midwives, water-finders, and such, for they were all followers of the Lady. This was declared in the king's name but actually was done at the urging of Calchas and Phobos, who commended Bromios for his wisdom and strength of character.
"That," Calchas remarked confidentially to Phobos, "should put these women in their place and keep them in it once and for all. High time, too."
"Indeed so, dear colleague," replied Phobos. "Further, since we are the ones who decide what is lawful and what is not, in practical terms we have as much power as Bromios himself."
"And considerably greater opportunities," said Calchas. "On the whole, things have fallen out more profitably than we could have foretold."
Meantime, while Bromios gloomed and glowered and the soothsayers congratulated each other, a clerk named Lucian went about his duties in the royal counting house.
Now, this Lucian was a large-framed, long-legged young man, mostly knees and elbows, and more by way of ear size than he really needed. His mother had been a palace cook; his father, a harness maker. Orphaned in earliest childhood, he had grown up in the kitchens and stables. Sturdy enough to be a palace guard, he was judged too nimble-witted for a military future. He could read and write, was quick at numbers, and showed so much promise that he had risen from sweeper to pot scraper; later, to archive copier. This very week, when the post fell suddenly vacant, he had been put in charge of inventories and accounts.
Lucian told himself he should be grateful; all the more since he had no prospect for any different occupation. If he applied himself, worked hard, did as he was told, and kept out of trouble, he could look forward to a long life doing exactly what he was doing. Which he hated, when he stopped to think about it; and so he thought about it rarely. He loved hearing every kind of tale or story, but that was the only serious flaw in his character.
Late on this particular afternoon, Lucian was in his cubbyhole, rummaging through boxes of scrolls and records of past accounts. At that moment, Calchas himself happened to pass by. He cast a cold fish eye on Lucian and the jumble of documents and demanded to know the reason for such disorder.
"Lord Calchas," Lucian said, getting to his feet, "my accounts don't balance. Something's wrong, but if I've made a mistake I can't find it."
"Mistake?" snapped Calchas. "It does not please me to hear of mistakes. They signify slackness and weak moral fiber, which I do not tolerate."
"But my sums are correct, as you can see." Lucian held out a slate covered with figures. "Only they don't tally with the provisions in the storehouse."
"Indeed?" Calchas had been about to tum away but now he stepped closer to Lucian. "Exactly how did you arrive at that conclusion?"
"My Lord, I've gone myself and counted every bean, every drop of oil, everything. I don't find what's supposed to be there. But it's been recorded as bought, and a great deal of money paid out.
"So much goods can't disappear into thin air," Lucian pressed on. "Rats couldn't have eaten them all. Were they stolen? Or even bought in the first place? Lord Phobos and your honorable self authorized the purchases, but I can't find who got the money-"
Lucian choked off his words. The soothsayer's pink cheeks had gone dead white, glistening with little beads of sweat, and his mouth seemed to be chewing on air. Lucian's blood froze as he suddenly understood that the answer to who got the money was standing in front of him. The realization took his breath away. He dared say no more. He felt as if a very large pit had opened at his feet and he had nearly blundered over the edge.
Calchas regained his composure and smiled. "What a painstaking young man you are. Now, my good fellow, tell me what you propose doing about it."
"I-I don't know. First, I thought I'd take it up with the chief steward, but-"
"That would be quite proper," Calchas said smoothly. "Only consider: Would it be prudent? The chief steward might see this business in a different and unfavorable light, reflecting your own incompetence. You yourself could be blamed, with painful consequences.
"No, y
ou will not report this mysterious state of affairs. Lord Phobos and I shall do it for you. We can explain your difficulties more lucidly and sympathetically. With you, there might be some doubt as to your honesty. Whereas, our veracity is beyond question."
Lucian did not answer. Calchas, beaming, clamped a hand on Lucian's shoulder.
"Our pleasant little conversation has proved most fortunate," remarked the soothsayer. "It has made me realize that you are far too intelligent and enterprising to waste your talents counting beans and scribbling numbers.
"It just so happens that Lord Phobos and I require an assistant, a young apprentice to learn our sacrificial procedures. The question: Where to find a suitable individual? The answer: Here he stands. Namely, yourself. Yes, my dear young man, the very position for you."
Lucian bowed his head; not out of respectful gratitude but to keep the soothsayer from reading the expression on his face. He could imagine all too clearly the sacrificial procedures Calchas had in mind.
"Come to our chambers," ordered the soothsayer, giving Lucian an affectionate tug on the ear. "By sundown, no later. Ah-yes, I shall take those obviously erroneous documents with me."
At that, Calchas snatched the papers, gathered up his robes, and went down the passageway as fast as he could waddle. The instant the soothsayer was out of sight, Lucian took to his heels in the opposite direction, running to find his closest friend in the palace, Menyas, the old stableman.
He was in a cold sweat when he reached the yard in front of the storehouses. There, one of the royal provisioners, a rough-bearded merchant called Cerda, had just arrived and was bustling about, shouting at porters to haul away sacks and baskets of goods. Menyas was tethering Cerdo's pack animals to a railing. Lucian pressed through the huddle of mules and donkeys.
"Menyas, listen to me." He seized the stableman's arm. "I'm in trouble. I have to get away from them. They're going to kill me-" He blurted out a hasty account of his encounter with Calchas.