The White City
The tavern was crowded, now that the day’s work was finished. It was noisy and hot, the drinkers euphoric through relief, rather than riotous. There was a lot of giddy laughter.
Korkungal and Ferlung sat together in a corner, protected from the clamour by a line of men who leaned against the tables. They were untouched by the atmosphere of the room, Both sat very erect, Ferlung because he was a Captain, Korkungal because he wanted to sleep and was afraid to. They had drunk a lot of the sweet golden beer in the early evening, but since the porters and the workers of the Ka had come in none had been brought to them. Ferlung was used to the drink and temperamentally suited to it, for he submitted willingly to its tender influence. But Korkungal did not like its effect upon him, He could not understand this reaction to the beer; he merely expressed it by his fight against sleep.
Now, when the celebration of the evening was at its height, and Ferlung sat erect in a trance and Korkungal sat erect in the midst of a struggle, the line of men in front of them was violently broken and a figure came hurtling through to collapse on their table. Ferlung blinked once and creased his bald forehead; Korkungal wanted to arise in alarm and defend himself, but managed only to stare in a dazed manner at the convulsed body. Then they heard the dry laughter, and focusing their eyes more carefully they saw that it was Uöos, the storyteller, who lay before them, helpless with provocative laughter, jolliness and drink.
Uöos must have known that Ferlung and Korkungal were there, for when he saw them he showed no surprise. Instead, he used his elbows to push himself off the table and slide down to the floor.
‘You see, Captains, I have been brought to you!’
He did not explain himself. Setting himself on his heels, he began to rock and croon:
‘I see you everywhere, my dear,
I see you everywhere,
In the grass, in the sea and sky,
Everywhere in the stones,
But most of all in the stars,
I see you everywhere, my dear.’
When he had finished, he looked up at Korkungal in particular, clapped his hands and said:
‘The story! The one true and glorious story!’
He scrambled to his feet and grasped Korkungal’s hand,
‘The story you wish most of all to hear.’
Korkungal made a feeble attempt to protest that this was not true, He pulled his hand away and the thought sprang into his battle-weary brain: What is the story that I most want to hear?
Uöos meanwhile pushed his two hands between Ferlung and Korkungal, and when they shifted he squeezed his back between them and burrowed energetically until he was securely seated. Korkungal gave way to him: he was preoccupied with trying to remember what story he had asked to hear. Ferlung, on the other hand, resisted, wanting only peace and his trance. Uöos gave him a final shove and grinned at him.
‘You are an ingrate, Ferlung the Navigator. You are a man born of earth and water, Beware of this: Water always returns to the sea, and if the earth does not resist it will be carried away with it, I tell you this for nothing.’
Though Ferlung’s eyes widened, he did not understand the old man. Nevertheless, he moved over.
‘Now, Korkungal, this story. It is an old, old story. How old, I could not begin to tell you. It is also a simple story, as stories should be, and conveys great wisdom to him who understands it. I have not often told it, not many have asked me to tell it, for the inspiration to ask to hear it is greater than the inspiration to tell it. Do you understand me? A story needs a listener before it needs a teller. So, I am a slave to the need and curiosity of others, yet where would they be without me? Which is the most miserable? The listener in need of a teller, or the teller in need of a listener? I do not know, for I have never been in need of listeners in places like this. And yet this problem haunts me. It should not, I know, for who ever heard of tellers without listeners, or listeners without tellers? It is the possibility of such a divorce that haunts me, for like everything else it is possible... Will you get me some drink, good Korkungal. I cannot go on until I wet my throat.’
Uöos abruptly fell silent and bowed his head. Korkungal got to his feet and searched the room for the tavern-keeper. All he could see was a sea of dark heads,
‘Did you get the drink yet, Korkungal?’ Uöos asked pettishly.
Korkungal swung around, Uöos was standing on the seat staring at him.
‘It is difficult in so crowded a place, old man,’ Korkungal said lamely.
‘It is not. Wait.’ Uöos took a deep breath and shouted:
‘Sora!’
Immediately, the line of standing men parted and Sora appeared. She carried bowls in one hand and balanced a large jug on her hip.
‘Ah, Sora, my daughter. As swift as ever you are.’
He jumped down and sat, Sora poured him a bowlful of beer and he drained it at once, As he drank she glanced up at Korkungal and motioned that he was also to sit. When he had done so, she filled a bowl and handed it to him.
Korkungal stared at her, He could not believe that she was not Agnanna, the virgin who had visited him in the watch-tower. She wore the same black vestment and her face was as heavily coated with cosmetics. But Sora’s eyes were different, They did not sparkle or dance: they were level and calm, He took the bowl and drank.
Sora placed the jug on the table in front of Ferlung and sat on the floor at Korkungal's feet. Before Ferlung could reach the jug, the old storyteller had tipped it over his own bowl and was filling it again.
Korkungal did not drink more than a mouthful, having taken so much out of courtesy for Sora and Uöos. He put his bowl on the table and looked down. Sora was staring at him, as though appraising him.
‘Are you not Agnanna?’ he asked with a kind of wonder.
She wrinkled her nose and looked at Uöos.
‘She does not understand your tongue, Korkungal,’ he said without taking the bowl from his mouth, ‘She speaks but one language and speaks it rarely. She would tell you, if she could, that she has no need of words in her life. And that is true.’
‘Will you ask her my question, then?’
‘There is no need, for I can answer it for her. She is not Agnanna, and in a little while, when I have told you the story, you will understand why.’
‘But I will not doubt my memory,’ Korkungal began, his earlier agitation returning. Uöos interrupted him:
‘I do not ask you to doubt your memory, only to understand it. I know your trouble. You are not the first to experience it. But do not make Sora responsible for it.’
Korkungal shook his head. The agitation moved in him and he could not rid himself of it. Sora continued to stare at him. The expression in her eyes had changed. It questioned him and seemed ready to relent and accommodate him. Korkungal returned her stare with a strange fury. His agitation increased.
‘Did you tell her to come here,’ he asked Uöos angrily, ‘in order to tease me?’
Uöos fell back against Ferlung, his face wide with mock-fear.
‘I called her. You heard me.’
‘How was it that she came so quickly, bringing this drink?’
Uöos laughed, edgily provocative:
‘What else would she bring me, an old man, Korkungal?’
He stroked the girl’s hair. She glanced up at him in a quick, child-like way.
‘You will not believe this, Korkungal, though I will tell you in any case. She is my consolation in old age. She is the fairest, the gentlest creature in this world. I need only raise my head, need only sigh, and she comes running to me, anticipating my wishes, be it food or drink, or perhaps some liniment for my throat, She is like a daughter to me, Korkungal. And yet I do not know why she is like this, for I am an ugly, misshapen, irascible old man. I am perverse and cantankerous, while she is sweet and considerate.’
Sora seemed to understand this. She looked at Korkungal in triumph. Uöos pinched her cheek and chuckled.
‘Now, Korkungal, let us get on with this story, otherwise we
will be here till dawn. It is, as I have said, a simple story, capable of being understood by a child, There are no great events, no burning of worlds or the drowning of whole races, no conflicts between empires with heroes dying by the thousand, There are no kings, no princes, no great personages at all in my story. No mighty deeds of daring, nothing that will fill you with awe or fear, nothing that will overpower the senses with the passions of love. Finally, there are no gods or goddesses, no demigods, no half gods; no strange creatures, no demons, no weirds, or other phantasies of the demented...’
Korkungal had been listening with growing impatience. Now he burst out:
‘Tell me what it is about, storyteller. I have no interest in things that are not.’
In his distraction he noticed that Sora was once again staring at him, a playful smile on her lips.
‘Very well, Korkungal, I will proceed to the subject of the story, though I am pained that you lack the patience to enjoy the storyteller’s art. I will tell you first who this story is concerned with. An old woman and her orchard. There! You have spoiled it. I will have to pause and recollect my wits with a bowl of drink.’
As he drank, Ferlung leaned over his back and whispered to Korkungal:
‘He is right, Captain. Lack of respect for a storyteller is a sure sign of barbarity.’
‘There are proper times for stories,’ Korkungal hissed in return, ‘and this is not one of them.’
‘Drink up, Captain,’ Ferlung said, winking. ‘Your bowl is before you. Be peaceful and co-operative. What else is there to do at this time?’
‘I do not know, though I feel it within me to do something else.’
Uöos replaced his empty bowl and sat back. He wiped his mouth with vigour.
‘An old woman and an orchard, Korkungal. Do you see it? An island in the middle of a great ocean, a small island with rocky shores and patches of bright green grass in places. And in the centre, on the brow of a low hill, an orchard, with the old woman’s hut snug in its shade. There was music in those apple trees: the wind played without pause on the leaves and they rustled, chipped and sang all day and all night. The old woman loved this music. She would sit each day in the centre of her orchard and listen in rapture to it, her eyes wide, her tongue hanging out. And though she loved this music and was grateful to the leaves and the wind for combining to provide it, her greatest love was the fruit itself. All summer long she would watch the apples grow, her upraised face speckled with the sunlight filtering through the leaves, seeing them first as little green pips of things, then swell and colour until they were red and bursting with the good sweet sugar of the earth. In the autumn she would pick them, placing each red apple in her apron with the greatest care. She would store them at the back of her hut, bedding them in straw, and eat one a day through the winter and spring, seated in a warm corner out of the wind. She would savour each bite, each spit of juice.
‘And the old woman herself? She called herself Asta. In height she was no taller than a ten year old. She had bowed legs, her knees the length of an arm apart, the result of some obscure misfortune. There was no grace in her body: dugs hung flapping to her waist and her hips and buttocks were wasted away to the bone. Her face was cracked and wrinkled, made worse by running eyes and a toothless hanging mouth that dribbled constantly. She had no hair, except for the odd wisp not worth notice, and her nails were broken and filthy. She was a wilful creature, and satisfied with being on her own, and satisfied, too, that the universe should concern itself solely with ripening her apples. But for all this, she was not a happy woman. It would be truer to say that she was a woman mollified.
‘Asta lived in her orchard for longer than most people can remember, watching her apples grow and then eating them during winter and spring. Of course, this could not last for ever; for if it had, I would not have a story to tell you. One day in autumn, a man came out of the water and stole all her apples. He was a giant of a man, taller than you, Korkungal, and you, Ferlung, with bushy eyebrows and a thick black beard. His eyes seemed equally black, and both hair and eyes contrasted strikingly with his skin, which was as white as milk. He wore a coat made of the skins of black goats, badly made – it trailed the ground in places; and over his shoulder he carried a huge club made of some dark knotty wood, which he had apparently chipped into shape with a rough stone. He came striding out of the seas mumbling to himself, and stopped in amazement and delight upon seeing the rosy apples in Asta’s orchard. She had not yet seen him, she was busy making preparations for the picking of the fruit, arranging the straw in anticipation, and the first she knew of his presence was when she heard his shout of glee. She ran out of doors and found him among the trees, his great hands tearing away apples, leaves and branches in greedy haste. She screamed at him, cursed him, and beat his back and thick buttocks. But all to no avail. He did not see her, being too intent upon the apples, though she cursed him with all the resources of her venomous mouth, and when he had eaten them all, and a fair amount of leaves and twigs as well, he turned about and marched back into the sea.
‘For most of the following winter and spring the old woman was no longer mollified. Instead, she was filled with the cruellest, the most shocking plans for revenge. She sat watching the shore for days on end, hoping that the robber would be tempted to return, though she did not know what she would do if he did return. Then she grew tired of waiting and grew tired of looking out to see, so she went up to the orchard and cleared up the mess of broken branches as best she could. When in spring the buds appeared she felt her heart lighten and the black moroseness in her brain lighten a little. The blossom helped her feel better; the first sign of an apple cheered her up no end. She resumed her vigil in the orchard, gazing up at the growing apples with the sun dappling her face. Autumn came on and the fruit ripened. She had by now forgotten all about the giant from the sea and no longer did the memory of his smelly coat or, more to the point, his total indifference to her as he ate up her crop of apples, rouse her to insane anger. She prepared as usual to pick the apples, getting the straw ready, making sure her apron was cleaned and darned. Then, on the very morning she planned to begin, the giant came marching out of the sea and repeated his actions of the previous year. Again he ignored her and got on with his work, and when he had stripped the trees completely, he went back into the sea.
‘She had been angry the first time it happened, but her feelings this year bore no comparison with her original anger. Not alone did she curse him, she cursed all of creation, making it an accomplice in the deed, and more than once swore violently to destroy it. Creation took no notice; it went on as usual and when spring came round it produced bud, blossom and apple-to-be, as though nothing had happened. It lightened the old woman’s mood, but this time she did not forget the giant. She lived in dread of his coming and watched her fruit ripen with a kind of fascination, the anticipation of old strong in her out of habit, but mingled now with a contrary foreboding that the anticipation would again be frustrated. Sure enough, on a day in autumn, just when she had decided to take a chance and pick the fruit a little earlier than usual, the giant appeared and ate the lot.
‘This happened in the next autumn and again in the autumn that followed. Asta tried to pick the fruit earlier and earlier in the season, though it had not ripened fully and it went against her nature to do it, but each time the giant came out of the sea and foiled her. Her temper grew as black as could be, until she began, out of spite, to wish for her own destruction. However, she had one hope. Chorsa came and listened to her. In no time at all she found a solution to the problem...’
At this point Uöos was interrupted. Two soldiers thrust their way through the standing men and presented themselves before Ferlung. They addressed him in the fluting tone of the Ka and he replied and stood up, shaking slightly.
‘The priest, Hepteidon, wishes to see me, Captain,’ he told Korkungal. ‘Perhaps he has orders for me...’
Korkungal stood up also. ‘I will come with you. It might be that I
am included.’
‘Stay and hear the rest of the story,’ Ferlung said slowly, the drink thickening his words. ‘Your name has not been mentioned. The instructions of the priests are always precise and no implications should ever be sought in them. When you are required you will be called by name. Surely you have experience of this.’
Uöos coughed loudly and filled his bowl, speaking as he did:
‘He is right, Korkungal. Sit down and let me continue with my tale, for if I say it myself, it is progressing well.’
Ferlung smiled, rubbed his forehead, spoke a word to the soldiers and followed them out of the tavern.
Korkungal sat again. Uöos drained the bowl and wiped his mouth, grunting loudly to clear his throat. Then he clapped his hands and looked about him. Seeing Sora, he said to Korkungal:
‘Perhaps we could make room for little Sora now. She would rather sit beside you than on the floor gazing up at you.’
Korkungal said nothing. He looked at Sora. When Uöos spoke to her she jumped up and settled herself between them, drawing her vestment in about her legs.
‘Now,’ Uöos said, petting her arm, ‘she is happier. She is a patient girl, but there is no harm in making her more contented.’
Korkungal merely blinked and sighed. The agitation was still in him. The story had calmed it but now it grew strong again.
‘Go on with your story,’ he said shortly.
‘Assuredly, Korkungal. That is why we are here, is it not?’ Uöos said with mock-moderation. ‘Where are we? Ah, yes. Chorsa has a solution to the problem of the giant. It is a simple solution, though not immediately evident within the scheme of the story so far told. It was spring and the trees had budded and blossomed. Old Asta had cleared the orchard of broken branches and twigs. The tiny apples were appearing and she was desperate for them. Chorsa returned with a small army of men, their wives and children. She had them camp on the shore and provided them with sweet water and dried meat. Throughout the summer Asta sat in the orchard and watched her apples grow. Chorsa had her men prepare weapons of stone and wood and laid plans for the coming battle with the giant.
‘Autumn came and the apples ripened. Asta set the day for the picking and Chorsa continued to train her men. Sure enough, on the day that Asta put on her apron to pick the fruit, the giant came out of the sea and marched up towards the orchard, his black eyes set on the trees and nothing else. Asta screamed at him and Chorsa gave her men the word. What a day for screaming and shouting! Half of the men were maimed or killed, but half of the crop was saved. The gluttonous giant swung his club and Chorsa’s army attacked with stick and stone, and Asta filled her apron as fast as she could, ducking and dodging the battle that raged around her. Afterwards, Chorsa was content that her plan had worked and Asta was mollified by the sight of the low pile of stored apples.
‘At the time of the next harvest the giant was attacked as soon as he came ashore. This was a better plan, for the giant had eyes only for the apples and so did not fight well. Nevertheless, many men were killed and the giant succeeded in stealing part of the crop. In the next year, Chorsa set the wives and children of her fighting men to help Asta harvest the apples. The giant was forced to retreat to the sea with his appetite unsated, the men belabouring his broad back with long sticks. When the autumn came round again, the giant came to the shore and no further. Chorsa’s men, their older sons helping to swell their sadly reduced ranks, lined the beach and the giant merely looked at them in perplexity before turning away and disappearing into the sea. Asta, her store filled as in years before, thanked Chorsa and sat in a secluded corner throughout winter and spring, eating with relish one apple a day.
‘Then, in early summer, Agnanna came to play among the men and their families. In the autumn the giant did not appear. Chorsa began to talk of taking her army away, now that they were no longer needed, but Asta shivered with fright and rage and insisted that they stay in case the giant should decide to return in the future. The wives and children helped with the harvest – it was fast becoming a custom among them, singing and dancing merrily as they did, much to Agnanna’s delight – while Chorsa oversaw the maintenance of the weapons and the day-long vigil on the beach by her men.
‘Years passed. The men remained on their guard, weapons at the ready, although the giant did not appear, and the women and children helped with the harvest. Many times Chorsa suggested taking the men away and each time Asta grew pale and trembled, begging her not to do it. Chorsa would complain then that she was tired of providing for them and Asta would plead with her to be patient and remember that her labour served a useful end. Agnanna, in contrast, was happy among the people. She played with the children, gossiped with the women and teased the men. She loved their company and they seemed to love her in return.
‘It was because of this love that Agnanna one day proposed to Asta and Chorsa that the men and their families should receive a share of the apples each autumn. She wished only to increase their happiness. Asta reacted in horror at the idea, but Chorsa, seeing that her labours would be reduced, agreed. She dismissed Asta’s unwillingness with the remark that she should pay for the protection the men gave her against the possible return of the giant. Between them, Agnanna and Chorsa decided that the orchard should be shared equally by Asta and the people...’
Here Korkungal got to his feet and stretched, his great fists clenched above his head. Uöos regarded him with a comic puzzlement.
‘Do you grow tired of my story, Korkungal?’
‘It tells me nothing, storyteller.’ Korkungal spoke without looking at Uöos.
‘You have not heard the ending. Perhaps it will tell you something. Come, sit again and let Sora fill your bowl.’
He spoke to the girl in her native language and immediately she jumped up and filled the bowls of Korkungal and Uöos. Korkungal refused the proffered bowl and instead stared with fear-widened eyes at Sora.
‘Are you not Agnanna?’ he asked her gently.
Sora smiled and nodded. Uöos had been watching Korkungal with increasing amusement, now he suddenly leaned forward and said:
‘No, Korkungal. She has not understood your question. She thinks you make a different request, one she is more than willing, it seems to me, to fulfil. I have told you before that she is not Agnanna and it should be clear to you by now why she is not. Sit down and drink. Let me finish this story, for you can do nothing better this night than listen to it. The last part, concerning Asta’s wrath, will making the meaning of my tale plain to you.’
The agitation rose in Korkungal until it filled his head. He could no longer control the terror that burned in him. With a rage that strangled his throat, he rushed forward, knocking over the table and some of the standing drinkers, and ran to the door. In the twilight he hurried through the noisy streets, finding his way by instinct to the Temple. Here he was confronted by a night world dominated by the White Light. The Temple was a black plane floating in a sea of milk. Korkungal began to tremble violently, his brain burning and his legs as immobile as stone.
How long he stood like that he did not know. He heard a rustle close to him and this acted like a fillip to break the spell. He turned and saw Sora at his side, her features hidden by the peculiar effect of the Light. She raised a hand to him, whether to signify her reason for being there or to lead him away, he did not know. He recoiled and cried:
‘The old man has sent you, has he not?’
The silhouette of her head tilted to one side and she replied in the fluting tongue of the Ka.
Korkungal clenched his hands and shouted:
‘He wishes to make fun of me by sending a common whore to my chamber?’
Sora spoke again, her voice sad-seeming, and she fell on her knees before him. Korkungal took one threatening step forward and shouted at her to go away. Then he spun round and ran towards the watch-tower. He did not look about him as he ran through the milky air, but kept his eyes on the tall black shape that was the tower. His lungs heaved and his heart p
ounded painfully. In his throat a scream was stuck, unable to find expression, and it seemed to choke him.
He saw an inexplicable shape at the foot of the tower, beside the door. Drawing close, he recognised the figure of the blue giant, Klimbah. He stared morosely before him, knees drawn up, his two arms laid across them.
Korkungal halted beside him and murmured a hoarse greeting, instinctively wary. But Klimbah did not acknowledge it and so Korkungal threw his weight against the door and gratefully found himself in the candle-lit lower chamber of the tower. He paused to rest.
The door opened and Sora came slowly in. She stood by it, her hands clasped together at her breast. Korkungal looked down at her. The face, the vestment and the cloak were all Agnanna’s.
‘Are you not Agnanna?’ he asked helplessly.
Sora smiled briefly and remained silent. The smile was indulgent. She took a candle from its socket in the wall and turned expectantly towards the stairs.
Korkungal continued to look at her, his arms loose by his sides. He panted still, but his heart no longer thumped in his chest. The agitation had eased, partially relieved by the run through the Ka. It was with resignation that he mounted the stairs. A strange resignation: it was outside of him, beyond him, having no end or object. Not even death would satisfy it.
Sora followed him. He heard the swish of her cloak on the stone. In his chamber, she put the candle in a socket over the couch. Korkungal looked at her again. Her features trembled in the flickering light. He pointed to the couch and she climbed on to it, betraying neither reluctance nor enthusiasm. She unfastened her cloak and let it fall behind her. Korkungal motioned that she was to lie down, which she immediately did. He laid a blanket over her. She stared at him for a moment, then suddenly she sat up, grasped his hand and kissed it.
Korkungal moaned and jerked away. He wrapped his cloak about his shoulders and sat on the floor by the foot of the couch.
He thought of Kandrigi, his priest. Tomorrow, he would go and see him and ask him to come away from this strange place. Living among the Briga again would not settle this agitation, he knew, but it would at least make him once again what he had all his life pretended to be:
A warrior.
Chapter Seventeen