"Cherish and treat it kindly," said Woman-Three-Women. "It is a fragile creature, easily frightened. But, always you will find it when you need it most. Its name is Hope-Never-Lost."
"With those words, Woman-Three-Women vanished as quickly as she had come, never to be seen again by mortal eyes."
9 - The Pharmakos
"And that," said Joy-in-the-Dance, folding her hands, "is how the Great Ones left us and women became keepers of wisdom, because of Think-Too-Late."
"A terrible punishment," said Fronto, with a wheezing sigh. "Being a human, let alone a poet, is difficult enough. However, compared with being an ass, I rather envy him." Lucian had been so caught up in the girl's story, as if he himself had climbed mountains and ridden avalanches, that it took him some moments to realize he was back at the pool's side. Hoping to hear more, he asked, "Is that the end?"
"Of that story," said joy-in-the-Dance. "After Woman Three-Women vanished, a mortal woman was chosen to take her place. She, and those who came after, held the title Lady of Wild Things.
"Mount Panthea and all the old sanctuaries are now places of study, where lore is handed down, as the story says, from Giving-All-Gifts. The Lady of Wild Things is first among our teachers, our guide and counselor who knows more than any of us. She teaches us to remember."
"Who needs to be taught? Everybody can remember. You just do it."
"Not the way you think. We learn by word of mouth. We memorize our lore and know it by heart. It isn't written down."
"You have all this wisdom, all these secrets," said Lucian, "and you don't even know how to write?"
"Of course we do. Mother Tongue's our first language. We certainly know how to speak it. And read it, and write it. But when it comes to lore and leamingno, Aiee-Ouch, we don't write it down. That's too dangerous.
"Don't you understand? Think about it," Joy-in-the-Dance went on. "If something's written down, it can be stolen. Or destroyed. Or copied wrong. Or changed all around so it doesn't mean what it was supposed to mean. Memory's the safest place to keep it."
"I don't see that," Lucian said. "Everything's gone forever if you happen to forget."
"We don't forget."
"That's true, my boy," put in Fronto. "It's been my experience that women never forget anything. There have been times when I wish they did."
"And all this came about because of what one man did long ago?" said Lucian.
"Not exactly," said Joy-in-the-Dance. "Once, our lore was written down. Not anymore. Not since the Bear tribe came to Arkadia. But that's a different story."
Joy-in-the-Dance closed her eyes, leaving Lucian all the more curious but none the wiser.
Next day, the wolves found them.
For much of that morning, Joy-in-the-Dance led Lucian and Fronto along a smooth forest track. After a time, however, Fronto began turning skittish, uneasily sniffing the air. Lucian glimpsed ash gray streaks flickering through the brush.
"Only wolves," Joy-in-the-Dance said, unperturbed. "We're in their territory."
"Then let's get out of it," urged Fronto. "I'll be turned into meat before I'm turned into a man."
The pack broke from cover that same instant. Half a dozen of the lean, rough-coated animals stationed themselves to block the path. A huge, yellow-eyed she wolf, tongue lolling and ears laid back, loped forward.
Lucian stepped quickly ahead of Joy-in-the-Dance. He snatched up a fallen branch. The gray wolf halted and crouched. Her hackles went up and she bared her fangs. Lucian's hands shook so violently he could scarcely keep a grip on the makeshift weapon. Nevertheless, he dug in his heels and braced for her attack. The wolf fixed her eyes on him and pointed her long muzzle.
"Run, you two," Lucian ordered. "I'll hold her off."
"Don't be such an Aiee-Ouch." Joy-in-the-Dance strode next to him, pulled the branch from his hand, and tossed it aside. "She won't bite."
"What's she showing me, then? I'd call them-teeth."
"I'd show mine, too, if somebody was shaking a stick at me."
The wolf trotted up, wagging her tail. She hunkered down in front of Lucian, snuffling and nuzzling his ankles. Lucian swallowed hard. "Good doggie," he said.
"Interesting," said Joy-in-the-Dance. "She likes you. She has something in mind."
"So do I," muttered Fronto. "Galloping in the opposite direction."
"Best go with her," advised Joy-in-the-Dance as the wolf took the hem of Lucian's tunic between her teeth and tugged him toward the waiting animals.
The pack closed around him. Next thing, he was willy-nilly bounding along with them. The wolves quickened their pace, urging him on with an occasional nip at his heels. As Lucian, to his surprise, found himself able to keep up, racing faster and faster, legs at full stretch and heart pounding, he began to relish the wild excitement of it. Joy-in-the-Dance and Fronto followed well behind him.
They halted at last, where several other wolves sat on their haunches at the foot of a tall beech tree. While Fronto eyed the pack uneasily, Joy-in-the-Dance came to Lucian's side. The wolves were looking at something high above. Lucian shaded his eyes and peered upward.
There was a man at the top of the tree.
"What are you doing?" called Joy-in-the-Dance.
"Nothing," the man shouted back. "I'm stuck. I can't climb down."
"Why are you thereat all?" the girl demanded. "Oh, never mind. I'll come up and get you loose."
"I'll do that," said Lucian, stepping in front of the girl. He felt marvelously sweaty after his run with the wolves, his muscles stretched and limber, and he decided that climbing a tree was exactly the challenge he wanted.
"Yes, it's man's work, of course," Joy-in-the-Dance said caustically. "I suppose you've done it a hundred times. Please, Aiee-Ouch, just keep out of the way and let me-"
"I think even a Bear man can figure it out." Calling Fronto, Lucian sprang to the poet's back and wrapped his arms around the lowest branch. He swung up and reached for one limb after the other, finding it easier than he expected.
Glancing down, however, made his head spin. The upper limbs grew thinner and bent under his weight. Swaying back and forth, trying to keep his heart from escaping by way of his mouth, he began wishing Joy-in-the-Dance had made more of an effort to keep him on the ground. Nevertheless, gritting his teeth, he clutched another branch and swung upward. What came to view was a foot, bare and mud-caked, tightly wedged in a fork of the tree.
"Good of you to stop by," said the owner of the foot. "I don't know when I'd have untangled myself, if ever. Sorry to inconvenience you."
The speaker, though a man no more than a dozen years older than Lucian, was in a terrible state of disrepair; for the most part, he was a collection of rags and tatters. Long yellow hair hung about his bruised forehead; his short beard had been plucked half away. Lucian turned his attention to the immediate matter of the foot, struggling until he pulled it free.
"Thank you. Excellent." The ragged figure set about unwinding his arms and legs. "I can manage quite well now."
The man began climbing down with surprising agility. Following his example, Lucian discovered it to be as difficult as climbing up, and far more unnerving. By accident, he adopted a quick method of reaching the ground: sliding, tumbling, bouncing off one branch after another to land sprawled in what he hoped was a triumphant posture.
"That was wonderful, Aiee-Ouch," the girl said. "I take it all back. You did perfectly, except for the one little moment when your skull hit the ground. Now, this fellow-he didn't get those stab wounds and bruises being caught up a tree."
The stranger, meantime, brushed himself off, looked around, and bobbed his head.
"Ops," he said.
"What's that?" said Lucian.
"Ops," the stranger repeated. "My name. Argeus Ops. Feel free to call me Argeus. Or Ops. Either will do. Forgive me for troubling you. I stopped to put a fledgling crow back in its nest. The parents thought I was stealing it. Understandably, they set upon me. Vigorously, too. The l
ittle one, as it turned out, didn't need my assistance. It flew off with its parents. Then I clumsily got my foot caught. Luckily, the wolves happened along. I asked them to find help."
"You talked to them?" said Joy-in-the-Dance.
"Why, I suppose I did," said Ops. "I wonder how? Sheer necessity, no doubt. Now, how may I be of service to you? Or your donkey? He doesn't look in very good state. Is something troubling him?"
"You don't know the half of it," muttered Fronto.
"He speaks?" said Ops. "How interesting." He bowed courteously to Fronto. "No offense. I'm sure you're an excellent donkey."
"Poet," corrected Fronto. "What happened to me never mind, I'm tired of explaining."
"As you wish." Ops turned to Lucian and Joy-in-the-Dance. "Have you two any miseries you'd like me to take on for you? Bad luck to get rid of? A loathsome disease?"
"You seem to have enough miseries of your own," said Lucian.
"It's my occupation," said Ops. "But, since I was cast out of my village, I've had little to do. I'm a pharmakos."
"Oh, no!" Joy-in-the-Dance cried in dismay. "When did this happen? Where?"
"What's a pharmakos?" asked Lucian.
"In Mother Tongue, that's the word for a scapegoat," said Joy-in-the-Dance. "A blame-taker. An old custom no one's followed for years. The country folk used to believe they could wish all their misfortunes onto someone else, blame him for whatever went wrong, throw him out into the wilds, and that would set everything right."
"Exactly so," said Ops. "Things went badly in my village after King Bromios made it a crime to deal with wise-women. We had no healer for ailing animals; no water-finder when two of our wells went dry; and, worst of all, no medicine woman for the infants who sickened for lack of good water. The village council decided a pharmakos could carry off their troubles. Oh, it was quite a celebration when they cast me out."
"I was afraid something like that might happen," Joy-in-the-Dance said, her eyes darkening. "They're slipping back into ways best forgotten. What next? Human sacrifice?"
"That was discussed," said Ops. "Luckily for me, they decided against it. They thought it best to lay their woes on a scapegoat. I'm sure they felt better, blaming me for everything," he went on, "and I was glad to do them a service. But when they got carried away, pulling my hair, hitting me with rakes and hoes-it seemed a little too much."
"No one stopped them?" demanded Joy-in-the-Dance. "No one spoke out against such a thing?"
"A few," said Ops. "Finally, most approved."
"What about the village chief?" said Joy-in-the-Dance. "He, at least, should have known better. He's supposed to have enough common sense and authority to forbid such doings."
"True," Ops agreed. "But, you see-I was the village chief."
10 - Hidden Treasures
"Their chief?" exclaimed Lucian. "They turned against I you?"
"Not exactly," said Ops. "There's a little more to it. The treasure under the stone, for one thing. And the old shepherd. And my parents, of course."
"Please, please," Fronto put in. "Go at it a step at a time. No one can follow a tale that bolts off in all directions at once."
"Very well," said Ops. "To begin: My father-name is Argeus Ops. My mother-name is Bright-Face."
"Your parents each gave you a name?" said Lucian. "That's an unusual thing to do, isn't it?"
"I think I know why," said Joy-in-the-Dance. "In the Bear tribe, it's the father who names his child; among my people, it's the mother."
"Yes," said Ops, "my father was a Bear man. My mother was a sanctuary maiden assigned to tend the local woods and fields."
"That's what I supposed," said Joy-in-the-Dance. Seeing a questioning look on Lucian's face, she added, "Our sanctuary maidens have always been free to marry with men of the Bear tribe or whoever they please. It doesn't happen too often these days." She turned back to Ops. "What about your parents?"
"My father died when I was a small boy; my mother, not long after," said Ops. "I was too young to remember them clearly, but the shepherd who raised me told me their story time and time again. How my father, hunting, had come upon a stag caught in a thicket. Just as he drew his bow, the most beautiful maiden he had ever seen sprang up and flung her arms around the stag's neck. She warned him if he tried to kill the creature he would have to kill her first.
"Naturally, he let the stag go free. He and the maiden fell in love at first sight. They dwelt happily together in the forest, and he never hunted again.
"When my mother knew that her life-thread had spun to its end, she gave me into the care of an old shepherd and his wife. They fostered and raised me as lovingly as if I had been their own. I helped tend the sheep and do other little tasks.
"When I was old enough to understand, the couple told me that my parents had hidden my birthright under a certain stone. The shepherd led me to a glade near the pasture and pointed out a boulder taller than I was. I begged him to move it for me so that I might possess what was underneath.
"That is forbidden to me," he said. "Your dear mother told me that only when you yourself move the stone shall you have what lies below."
"Impatiently, I tried to wrestle it loose. But, of course, I was too small and weak. Even so, time after time, I would go and test my strength against it. Through each passing year, I struggled to raise the boulder, always failing. Often, I would sit on it, playing my shepherd's pipe, dreaming of what could have been treasured up for me, while the sheep, gently bleating-"
"Oh, get on with it!" cried Fronto. "No need to string it out, we understand the situation. There, Lucian, is an example of bad storytelling. Ops, for the sake of mercy and my patience, come to the point."
"Oh-yes, well, after I reached the strength of young manhood, a day arrived when I did shift the stone a little. I sweated and strained, and at last I rolled it away. Under it, I found a pair of sandals and a silver amulet and chain. Puzzled as much as excited, I picked them up and ran to the cottage.
"Instead of joy and pride at my accomplishment, the shepherd and his wife gazed at me with sadness.
"Alas, the day has come when you must leave us," the shepherd said. "The amulet is for your protection; the sandals for you to walk your own road. When the sandals wear out, there will you stop and stay."
They hung the amulet around my neck and put the sandals on my feet. With loving farewells, I set out from the cottage. My sandals were stout and well crafted; but, in time, the bindings broke, the soles came loose. Just as they fell from my feet, I found myself nearing a small village. I entered it, though hardly believing I would wish to stay there.
"The folk heartily welcomed me and showed me all the hospitality due a stranger-less than they would have liked, for their provisions were scant. The reason, they told me, was the constant raiding of their stores and granaries."
A band of wanderers prowled the fringes of the village, darting in to pilfer whatever came to hand. "Worse than mice," one man complained, "and too quick to catch."
"A nuisance growing into a pest into a plague," another added, "gnawing away a little here, a little there. If it keeps on, there won't be enough for us; or them, either."
The villagers had found no way to stop this raiding. As I listened, a plan took shape in my mind. I offered to help them, warning them to do as I instructed, without question. At their wits' end, they eagerly agreed.
Next, I went alone to where this rootless band crouched in their makeshift camp. A ragtag lot of starvelings they were; men, women, and children, unkempt, round-eyed with hunger, for even what they stole was barely enough to serve them.
"Friends," I declared, "why waste your time and strength being sneak thieves? Walk with me straight irito the village. You shall have all you ask and more." However, I insisted on their following my orders and doing whatever I required.
That they vowed and followed me-to the dismay of the villagers, who nevertheless kept silent, as they had promised.
"Take what you please," I told the wretched
band, pointing to the granaries. "Take all, if that suits you. But-the grain must be threshed and winnowed first, and you must lend a hand in doing it."
"Scowling, glaring, villagers and strangers nevertheless joined in the work. I kept them so busy they forgot to distrust one another, and there was even some good natured jesting back and forth. That night, I called for a festival with dancing on the threshing room floor; and there, high spirits and laughter softened hard feelings.
"Before the grain is shared out," I now told them, "part must be set aside for the animals and for brewing, and the rest ground into flour. This is a long, hard task, so all must join in."
"For days, the strangers labored at grinding the grain, receiving food enough to satisfy their hunger. When they finished, I declared, This is well and good, but the flour must be baked into bread. You must help to knead and shape the loaves before you claim anything more."
"And so it went," Ops continued, one common task after another until planting season came round and I required the wanderers to help in plowing and sowing. By this time, they were no longer wanderers. They had found occupations among the villagers, some were even betrothed or married, with little ones on the way, and few remembered when there had been ill will.
I was chosen by all to be village chieftain and leader of the council. It was then, at last, I told the former strangers they were free, if they chose, to take everything they wanted and depart.
"Go from here?" retorted a lad who had apprenticed himself to a potter. "Live hand-to-mouth in the woods? I'm no such fool."
"We can't spare them," added the winemaker. "How did we get along without them? Here they all stay, as friends and kindred."
"The village prospered," said Ops, until, as I told you, we were forbidden to deal with wise-women. As things turned worse, the villagers grew desperate. Their fearful thoughts went back to a grim and ancient custom. They demanded a scapegoat.
By no amount of reasoning, pleading, or angry protest could I change their minds. The council, among themselves, had already settled on the victim: an old woman, half-blind and so feeble she could barely put one foot in front of the other. "Who better?" they declared. "Her life-thread is at its end. As she is no use to herself, she can be of use to our village."