The White City
His shoulder being shaken awoke Korkungal, he started quite suddenly, alarmed at finding himself in a strange room, and floundered among the cushions. A youth was bent over him, whom he had never seen before, studying him with amused curiosity.
‘Who are you?’ Korkungal demanded roughly. The events of the day came back to him.
The youth straightened himself and stood back. He remained silent. Korkungal rolled off the cushions on to the flagged floor and leaped to his feet. He clasped the hilt of his sword menacingly.
‘You’re an impudent brat. Now answer me!’
The youth was beardless and red skinned, his face round and handsome, as tall as Korkungal himself. A red cloak of some fine material covered his shoulders and hung to his ankles. He took one step back and lifted the cloak and tossed it onto his shoulders with practiced movements to expose a lithe body clothed with a white tunic, from a thin belt at his waist hung a sheathed dagger made of the same bright metal as Korkungal’s sword.
‘So you will fight me,’ Korkungal roared in heavy irony, drawing the sword from his belt.
The smile vanished from the youth’s face, but reappeared immediately when he saw how Korkungal held the sword: brawny hand grasping the blade just below the hilt as though he would throw it. He raised his two hands, palm outwards, in peace and spoke in the same fluting tongue as the priest had earlier that day outside the Temple.
Korkungal put his sword back in his belt. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, disregarding the fact that the youth could not understand him.
He must have guessed the nature of the question, however. For he turned towards the doorway and beckoned Korkungal to follow. Korkungal picked up his throwing stick, a weapon the youth paused to stare at with unconcealed incredulity, and strode out of the room. But he had no sooner taken two steps in the open air than he recoiled in horror and turned and ran back through the doorway. He collided with the youth, who had been hurrying to catch him up. Korkungal grabbed him by the wrist and shook him, asking earnestly:
‘Where am I? Am I in Hell?’
The youth was puzzled by the terror obvious in Korkungal’s voice. He pulled himself free of his grip and went to the door. But once he understood. He returned to Korkungal, his finger to his lips, to silence him, and took him by the wrist. Gently but firmly he led him to the doorway. Korkungal stared out. Everything had lost its colour! Trees, bushes, dwellings, even the Temple, were no more than black silhouettes superimposed upon one another. Yet he could see these shapes with remarkable clarity, for the air itself seemed as though white, like milk, eddying among the black forms, separating them.
The youth laughed and pointed upwards. Korkungal bent forward and followed the line of the finger. Above the Temple he saw a ball of white light, which radiated a cold, brilliant aura of light. The youth laughed again and skipped out into the glowing air, beckoning Korkungal to follow. Fascinated, he did so. The youth had turned black in the light, and when he looked down at himself, Korkungal saw that he too was black, merging without seam into the black ground under his feet. The youth clasped his hand in his, squeezing it, laughing and pointing at the ball of light, crying, ‘Lula! Lula!’
‘Lula,’ Korkungal repented, amazed, terrified, overwhelmed.
‘Lula, Lula,’ they shouted in unison, the youth encouraging Korkungal by squeezing his hand and pointing.
It was Korkungal, though still in terror of the effects of the light, who calmed first. His practical nature did not grant authority to abstraction from the senses. The frightful scene about him did not attack him, did not threaten him physically, so he accepted its passivity, though not liking it. The youth continued to chant the word at the top of his voice, body jerking, eyes starting from his head, as a kind of hysteria took him over. Korkungal stared at him, but when he felt his own nerves begin to respond in sympathy with the hysteria, he caught the youth and shook him until he quietened.
Brows raised, mouth slack, the youth mumbled a final ‘Lula’ and then suddenly laughed in Korkungal’s face and threw himself on him. Korkungal exerted his great strength and freed himself, pushing the grinning youth away.
‘Ko’kunkul,’ the youth said, pointing at him. Then he laid his hand on his own chest and added: ‘Harmesh.’ He intertwined his fingers, drew his arms in against his body, and spoke at length in the alien, fluting tongue, bowing often, his voice ranging over almost every tone of expression from sadness to gaiety. When he had finished, he became grave; he pulled his cloak tightly about him and walked away.
Korkungal followed him as he went around the garden and behind the Temple. They crossed an open area and skirted a number of buildings, which stood out against the murky air as flat silhouettes, and presently the youth stopped before a tall, tower-like building. He paused until Korkungal caught up and then led him through the heavy doorway, the lintels and jambs constructed of large stone blocks. Thick candles guttered in wall sockets, and Korkungal looked about him in relief, glad to see colour again, while the youth swung the heavy door to and shot a bolt of wood into a hole drilled in the jamb.
The room was circular, the walls of rough, unmortared stone and bare except for the candles. Steps of stone followed the curve of the wall and disappeared through a small opening in the ceiling. Korkungal steeled himself against the chill in the room.
The youth came and faced him. He had thrown his cloak back and stood with both hands extended, palm upwards.
‘Ko’kunkul,’ he said, his eyes hooded and shy-appearing.
It took some time for Korkungal to understand what the youth was saying. He remembered hearing him say it before.
‘Korkungal,’ he said. The youth tried to mimic him but in the end succeeded in correcting only the last syllable.
‘Ko’kungal,’ he said at last, grinning widely. Then he pointed to himself: ‘Harmesh.’
‘Harmesh,’ Korkungal repeated.
Immediately the youth grasped Korkungal’s free hand in both of his and squeezed it.
‘Ko’kungal, Ko’kungal,’ he chanted, seemingly delighted with himself.
‘Harmesh, Harmesh,’ Korkungal chanted in unison, happy to make a game of it.
Harmesh became excited and began to dance up and down. Korkungal remained still, though he was infected with the youth’s gaiety. Suddenly Harmesh rushed forward and kissed Korkungal on the cheek. He whispered ‘Ko’kungal’ and then ran away up the steps, his laughter echoing in the room and up through the building.
Korkungal went up the steps after the youth. The first floor was in darkness, but the winding stairway was illuminated from the chamber above that again, He could hear Harmesh’s shrill voice, talking rapidly and laughing. The lit chamber was empty. There was a couch in the centre, covered with furs. On the wall hung weapons: swords, throwing sticks of various lengths, each with a head of metal, and axes with heads of metal. Shields too: square, round and oval, constructed of leather and wood, some with metal edging, all brightly decorated. Korkungal was too tired and numb to feel either great shock or surprise at seeing such a quantity of superior arms in one small room.
He ascended to the next floor. Harmesh stood in front of a couch talking to a figure hidden in wrappings of blankets and cloaks, his hands demonstrative as he spoke. He stopped and turned when Korkungal grunted, and eagerly beckoned him forward. He pointed to the swaddled figure on the couch and said:
‘Klimbah.’
Then pointing to Korkungal:
‘Ko’kungal.’
Korkungal bowed stiffly, leaning on his throwing stick. The figure named Klimbah began throwing off his coverings. Then Korkungal saw a spectacle that made him wish for his snug bed back in the land of his family. Klimbah was literally a giant, a massive figure who had to stoop in the relatively high room. His hair was white with age and his blue-black skin was wrinkled all over. He stared at Korkungal with livid eyes and grunted a greeting. Those formalities over, Harmesh indicated that Klimbah was to sit, which he did, drawing the blankets about him again.
Smiling, Harmesh then led Korkungal to the far side of the room. Leaning against the wail was a gigantic stone axe, its handle the dimensions of a small tree. Harmesh pointed to the sword in Korkungal’s belt and mimed bending it with ease, as though to explain why the giant used stone weapons. Beside the axe stood a shield of wood, as tall as Korkungal and as wide as Harmesh’s extended arms. Finally, he showed him the giant’s spear. Lying on the floor, its shaft stretched across the room behind the couch, The head was made of a blue metal, which, Harmesh demonstrated, was capable of piercing stone.
He stood back then and grinned with amusement at Korkungal’s bemused face and the throwing stick he held with habitual firmness. Korkungal, out of pride, resisted the temptation to touch any of the weapons, and to distract himself he turned his head to look at the seated giant. Klimbah stared impassively before him, ignoring both Korkungal and Harmesh.
‘He is old, this giant,’ Korkungal said to Harmesh, who twisted his face quizzically in reply. Korkungal pointed to his own hair and then pointed to the giants s hair. Harmesh understood immediately and nodded vigorously, grinning. He nodded in Klimbah’s direction, thrust out his chest and began to beat it with his fists, his eyes bright and wide with mockery.
Suddenly uneasy because of the youth’s insulting behaviour, and feeling the strangeness of his own presence in their company. Korkungal threw a quick glance at the giant. He was watching Harmesh with placid eyes, apparently unmoved by his mockery. Korkungal was outraged, mostly because he had felt an instinctive respect for this huge blue man and his weapons. He caught Harmesh’s arm and shook him forcefully, saying thickly, ‘Stop it, boy, or I will beat you.’
Harmesh broke free and staggered back, holding his arm. He began to scream at Korkungal and now and then he seemed to appeal to Klimbah. Korkungal sensed the alliance between them and realised that he had made a serious mistake. Seeing Klimbah slowly and ponderously getting to his feet made him more certain. He began to move back to the stairway, taking care to make no gesture that could he interpreted as an expression of fear or aggression. Klimbah, meanwhile, took one step, which was sufficient to bring him to Harmesh’s side. He spoke a number of words in a booming voice, and when these seemed not to have the desired effect, he cuffed Harmesh gently. At once Harmesh switched the direction of his verbal assault and began to punch the giant’s midriff. Korkungal stopped at the stairway and watched them. Klimbah stood still for a moment, showing no reaction to the punches; then he laughed aloud and picked Harmesh up. He shook him until he cried out in terror. Then he brought him In against his breast. Harmesh threw his arms about him and clung to him, his voice now whimpering and pleading. Klimbah laughed again, this time indulgently, and put Harmesh on his feet.
Korkungal saw that it was safe to come back into their company. What he had witnessed made no sense to him as a sequence of actions between three men. There had been actions which were proper between men, between men and youths; and between men and young children. Korkungal had acted as a man should with a mocking youth, then he had been repulsed by an alliance of men, only to see this alliance turn into a man teasing a child. It was very strange, and the strangeness made him momentarily timid and watchful.
Klimbah had returned to the bed, where he wrapped himself in blankets and cloaks, a doting eye on Harmesh, who was quickly recovering from his fright. He smiled shyly at the giant.
Korkungal coughed.
Harmesh spoke to Klimbah, who then looked over at Korkungal and nodded. Harmesh signalled to Korkungal to go to the stairway. He slapped the giant’s knee playfully and skipped across the room after Korkungal. They went down the stairs past the lit chamber with the furs and shields and metal weapons. In the dark below Harmesh touched Korkungal’s arm as a signal that he was to wait. He went below to the ground floor and returned soon carrying a candle, which he pushed into a socket.
The room had the same dimensions as the chambers above. In the centre stood a couch, on which lay a number of folded blankets. The wall was completely bare, broken only by a small window covered by a heavy curtain.
Harmesh shook out the blankets, chattering away in his own tongue as he did. Korkungal watched him, leaning on his throwing stick. The sight of the couch and the prospect of rest caused him to tremble with fatigue.
When he had laid out the blankets, which varied in richness of decoration, Harmesh turned and gracefully indicated that Korkungal was to take possession of the chamber and treat it as his own. He even went so far as to lay his hands on Korkungal's shoulders and gently push him backwards until he was sitting on the edge of the couch. Then he relieved him of his throwing stick and sword and stood them against the wall. With a final bow to Korkungal he went to the stairway and paused to throw an ironic glance at both the warrior of the Briga and his weapons before darting up the steps and out or sight.
Korkungal entered the world of sleep as though he were escaping from Hell.
Chapter Five