The first light of the sun lit the sky, then the land, then the wall of the Ka. The birds that inhabit the ample grasslands behind the fortified city began their morning song.
The sun rose higher and its light struck the taller dwellings in the Ka. It lit the massive blind walls of the Temple. The watch-tower gleamed.
The sunlight fell on the thick curtain that covered the small window of Korkungal’s chamber: a weak milky glow penetrated the curtain into the room.
Korkungal awoke when the light was strong enough to outline the grosser details of the chamber. This was a habit so engrained in him as to be an instinct by now. He rolled onto his back. For an instant he experienced confusion – then quick enthusiasm for morning time, like that of a youth, swept over him and he threw off the blankets and leaped from the couch. The chilled air caused him to shiver mightily, hissing noisily through clenched teeth, he skipped a few times and then pulled his tunic off. He neighed like a horse as the cold struck his naked body and pranced vigorously, happiness surging in him, delight plucking the roots of his hair, and joy in the freedom of his body giving him the strength of ten young warriors. He ran and tore the curtain from the window and greeted the clean light of the sun with a quick hoarse shout. It warmed his flesh.
Now, while yet without memory, while as innocent as the morning itself, Korkungal wrapped himself in his ample cloak and descended and went out into the open. He trotted around the back of the Temple, between the dwellings gathered about the little garden, past the pond, and across the stony common to the corrals. Throwing off his cloak, he ran among the horses, slapping the rumps of those that happened to come within his reach, grunts of ecstasy escaping spontaneously from his throat. When he had thoroughly heated himself, he dropped on to the grass and rolled about in the dew, Like a young animal, he threshed his limbs, his flesh tingling from contact with the moist grass. Growing chill, he scrambled to his feet and commenced to run around the corral, lifting his legs high to quicken the blood. He circled the corral three times, following the rough wattle fence and passing under the shadow of the wall of the Ka, until his pulse raced and his breath came in short pants. With a last burst of his early morning high spirits he grabbed up his cloak while running and held it above his head as he leaped over the fence and landed, tumbled and rolled on the other side. There he lay still for a moment in order to regain his breath.
During that moment his memory returned. He sighed fatalistically. He remembered Harmesh and Klimbah, the warriors of the Ka. He was amused by his memory of them, but impressed when he recalled their weapons. And the Ka and the many new things he had seen during the previous day. He grew confused and lonely. He pressed his hot cheek into the dewy grass: he accepted. He calmed. He would be ever-watchful.
He rose to his feet and swung his cloak over his shoulders. At the pond the woman of the Ka had come to fetch water. They lined the pond’s edge, their full jugs at their feet, watching him. Korkungal wrapped his cloak tightly about him. It was unseemly that women should spy on a warrior at his exercises. If he had known...
He blushed. The women saw the bright blush on his white skin. They lowered their eyes – their dark skins did not permit a flush to convey their embarrassment. Korkungal approached the pond with strong, measured steps. The women hastily took up their jugs and retreated, giggling and eyeing one another in their excitement and confusion.
But one woman remained, hands on hips, a small table jug between her feet. When Korkungal reached the pond, she spoke to him in a clear voice:
‘It is a fine morning, Warrior of the Briga.’
She had the firm features and level glance of a woman in her middle years.
Korkungal was non-plussed. The woman called again:
‘Are you thirsty, Warrior?’
Korkungal was very dry. He nodded and stooped to the water.
‘Stay,’ the woman said. ‘I will bring you water.’
Korkungal froze and followed her with straining eyes as she walked around the perimeter of the pond. She would be a strong wife and mother, Korkungal thought, with a husband who knew his business and kept to it, with a strong son near manhood whom she teased and spoiled, with perhaps young daughters whom she treated severely.
The woman stood before him, gazing at him with irony. She produced an earthenware bowl from under her shawl and poured water from the jug.
Korkungal gulped the water down.
‘I thank you, woman,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the end of his cloak.
‘You are a strong, agile man, Korkungal,’ the woman said. Though her skin was dark, her eyes were blue. They glittered brilliantly in the early light.
‘You know my name, woman, and you know my tongue,’ Korkungal said confidentially. ‘It surprises me. Will you tell me how these things are known to you. Perhaps the priests have sent you to me.’
‘Not the priests, Korkungal. They will send you boys and old men, nothing more.’
‘Harmesh, then?’
The woman curled her lips. ‘Harmesh? He would drive the Mother herself to distraction.’
‘I am known as a patient man in my dealings with women, but will you now tell me who sent you to me.’
‘What is it to you who sent me, Korkungal? Is it not enough that I am here for you to look on?’
‘I do not understand. Why have you come?’
‘Sacred Mother, Korkungal, but you are a simple man. All these questions. I have come to offer you company.’
She looked him up and down. Korkungal knew then that she was not the wife of a strong man, nor did she have any daughters.
‘What is your name, woman?’
‘Chorsa.’
‘You are a fine woman, Chorsa.’
She laughed musically. ‘I am? Be truthful, Korkungal. Would you not prefer a younger woman? A maid, perhaps, shy and submissive?’
And before Korkungal could reply, to protest his preference for her, Chorsa seemed to change. She seemed to grow younger, her skin to soften and dimple, her eyes to lose their experience and become tremulous and trusting.
‘A young girl, Korkungal, shy and without blemish?’
Korkungal’s throat was dry again.
‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘If there is a choice. Though I do not understand how this is possible.’
‘You are not a priest, Korkungal, to try to understand. Accept the evidence of your eyes, no more. You have the choice. Make it.’
Korkungal made his choice with speed: ‘The virgin, Chorsa. The virgin.’
‘As you will. A virgin it will be.’
Her body lost weight and became slender under her shawl.
‘Come with me now to my chamber in the watch-tower.’
Korkungal could hardly contain himself.
‘Not now, Korkungal.’ Her voice seemed soft and sweet. ‘Tonight, when it is dark, I will come to your chamber and share your couch.’
‘Now,’ Korkungal insisted. He reached out to touch her.
‘Tonight,’ Chorsa repeated gaily, evading his hands.
‘Oh, very well. I will wait for you.’
‘She will come. Go now.’ She seemed to assume her original appearance. She waved her hands at him. ‘Be off with you now, Korkungal. You have much to do.’
Korkungal reluctantly left her and retraced his steps to the watch-tower, walking slowly with head bowed, his body excited and his brain bemused. Soon, the wonder of it passed beyond him and he began to doubt Chorsa’s existence.
I have been too long without the company of women, he told himself gravely.
Chapter Nine