Lampley looked about him. Mountains shut off every horizon; the near
ones sharp, serrated, detailed, those far-off hazy, soft and rounded.
It was impossible to make out the character of the more remote, but
those on either side gradually melted into foothills with twisting
streams appearing from between shoulders and disappearing again behind
ridges. The light overhead, nebulous, indefinite, emanated from no
discernible body. It had the quality of sunlight filtered through thin
clouds, soothing to the eye as the balmy air was pleasant to the skin.
He felt refreshed.
Beneath his feet a fan-shaped plateau canted downward until it merged
with a mighty plain far off, a plain enclosing a vast lake. A broad
river meandered across the plateau and continued, as near as he could
tell, on the plain below. Dense blue-green grass grew lushly, heavily
powdered with yellow, white, and purple violets, dandelions, daisies,
buttercups and tiny pale blue flowers. The Governor took off his shoes
and socks, stuffing the socks into the shoes and knotting the laces
together. He slung them over his shoulder. The grass felt electric,
rejuvenating his feet as he trod on it.
A black fox crossed his path and paused to stare over his sharp nose
before continuing on. A squirrel balanced its body erect for a swift,
curious scrutiny before it was off with a flick of its tail. Other
small animals bounded past him, none seemed afraid. He thought he saw
deer in the distance, and a bear, but he was not sure.
He came to a bank of the river and followed it down. He could see
now it was joined by a number of tributaries before it emptied into
the blue, unruffled lake. Other rivers foamed down the more rugged
mountains on each side of the plain, all made their way to the lake
which seemed to have an island in it, a long way from shore.
When he reached a confluence with one of the branches he hesitated and
followed the smaller stream back until he came to a place where it was
crossed by high, flat-topped steppingstones nosed into the splashing
and spuming water. He tested the rocks gingerly, but they were firm,
and though wet, not slippery. Each time his progress was stopped by
such a meeting he found a similar set of stones not far away.
Nearing the lake he saw its color was a warm blue, with violet tones.
There was no hint of paleness in it; it was majestic, assured, unique.
He quickened his pace. The island assumed more definite shape. It was
large and irregular, with capes and promontories thrusting out into
the lake. Heavily wooded, willows came down to the shore, behind them
oaks and maples spread red and yellow leaves. Still further back the
blue tips of firs pointed above.
He came to the shore, a rocky beach, where the water lay perfectly
still over and between round, mossy stones. He waded in; the water was
delightfully cool without a suggestion of coldness. He reached down
and laved his face with it. When he straightened up he saw a rowboat a
little further out, unanchored, its bow resting on the rocks, its stern
hardly moving. The boat was the color of the lake save for a silvery
trim and silvery oars were neatly shipped in bright metal rowlocks.
The Governor made his way carefully to the boat, freeing it from the
rocks. He climbed in, laid his shoes in the stern, began rowing toward
the island. After a few strokes he paused and looked upward. The haze
was evidently permanent, which might somehow account for the unvarying,
equable climate. He shipped the oars and allowed the boat to drift. A
fish jumped in the water and splashed a widening circle. A bird, white
and gold with carmine beak, flew overhead. Everything was serene.
There was no wind but there seemed to be a weak current, for the boat
drifted very slowly, equidistant between the shore and the island. The
features he had noticed before became more differentiated; he noted a
number of landspits, small coves, moonshaped beaches. The woods did
not everywhere come right down to the water; in places they retreated
to make room for soft green meadows. He picked up the oars and rowed a
long distance before coming even with a particularly inviting cove.
* * * * *
He debated whether or not there might be a still more desirable one
farther along. The temptation to refuse decision was great. It was with
a distinct effort that he turned the bow and ran the boat ashore.
The sands were fine and soft and golden, darkening a short way from the
lake into a pale brown border between the beach and the greensward. He
stepped out of the boat and hauled it clear of the water. Impulsively
he took off his clothes and put them with his shoes. He rolled on the
grass like a boy or a horse. The grass was soft as down, yet springy
and lithe beneath his body. He lay prone, snuffing in the smell of the
bruised stems. He stretched out his hands to reach into a patch of
clover with the idle thought that one of them might be four-leaved.
He saw with horror he was reaching with the reddish, vestigial,
unteachable hands on foreshortened arms of his son.
He felt sweat on his forehead as he shivered in terror. He jumped up
and ran for the boat, slipping and sliding on the crushed grass. He lay
trembling, eyes shut. Fearfully he drew his hands toward him and opened
his eyes. These were his own hands, familiar, middle-aged and freckled,
normally colored, still fairly smooth despite the raised veins, still
cunning to hold and twist and manipulate. His own hands, attached to
his own arms. Shaken, he sighed in shuddering relief.
He walked slowly over the grass toward the interior of the island.
Under the nearest trees--larch, beech, hickory--wild strawberries grew
thickly. He picked quantities of the elusive fruit, crushing it with
his tongue against the roof of his mouth, enjoying its sweetness,
allowing the juice to trickle slowly, deliciously down his throat. He
had not tasted wild strawberries since the day he and Mattie decided to
get married (No children till we can give them the things they should
have).
The trees were well spaced, letting the light enter freely between
them. There was no young growth, no saplings; all the trees were full
grown and healthy, with no sign of deadfalls or rotted logs. Only, far
apart, raspberry canes bearing their garnet, black, white or green
thimbles.
The trees didn't thin, they stopped abruptly. Ahead was a natural
clearing; in the center of the clearing a jungle growth of stalks and
vines rose in a high and inextricably tangled mound. Lampley advanced,
irresistibly attracted. He tried to part the interwoven stems but they
refused to give. On the ground were flat stones, some with sharp edges.
He picked up a fair-sized one and went back to the woods. With some
trouble he used it to saw off an oak branch.
He shaped the club to the right heft and bound the stone to it with
vines. He was dubious of its strength and his doubts proved justified
when, after hacking through some of the growth, the head came loose.
With new patience he reaffixed it and continued to cut away. His arms
began to ache; short, blinding flashes darted behind his eyes. He
persisted; there was no reason, no goal--he was simply impelled to
clear his way into whatever lay hidden by the tangle.
After refitting his crude ax again and again, he tore away the loosened
vines to reveal a white stone column, tapered slightly at base and
capital, its smooth sides spotted with the marks of the sucking disks
and clinging tendrils he had torn free. Beyond the column he was faced
by an enclosed, roofed rectangle. In this dim area no vines grew except
the sickly, inhibited, baffled ends whose invading thrust had faltered
in complete discouragement. Doubling back, they had interwoven in their
attempt to return to the light, but they had not been able to make a
curtain impervious enough to prevent him seeing the backs of the other
pillars and the high roof they supported.
He shouldered his way in and peered through the dusk to make out a
table flanked by two wide couches. Both table and couches were of the
same stone as the columns--marble, Lampley guessed--the couches piled
with soft furs. He took a tentative step forward.
Something glinted dully on the table, it was a bronze ax. He picked it
up, balanced it, tried the edge with his thumb. It was reasonably sharp
and the handle was firmly fitted into the head.
* * * * *
With mounting enthusiasm he attacked the vines from the rear, chopping
and slicing, confident in this fine tool. Triumphantly he cleared the
space between two pillars, dragged the cut growth clear, returned to
his task. He freed another pillar, opened another space, dragged more
vines away.
Now the interior was lucid enough to show the floor as one large mosaic
of gleaming stones. The picture they composed was of a central fire,
the flames red, blue and yellow, surrounded by smaller, less brilliant
fires. On the outer edge animals turned their heads toward the warmth:
horses, oxen, elephants, lynx, hippopotami, wolves, lions, zebras, elk.
He resumed his work, finished clearing one of the long sides and
pulling down the severed branches from the roof before stopping again.
Backing away to the trees he saw the building was so simple in design,
so artfully proportioned, that it might have grown in this spot. The
low pitched roof was copper, untarnished, like the new-minted pennies
he had picked up in the hotel.
* * * * *
There was almost full visibility inside the little temple now; on
impulse he hacked holes in the ivy on the other three sides for crude
windows. The fresh light illuminated the ceiling, intricately painted
in abstract designs with colors as bright as those of the mosaic. The
table and couches were the only furniture, but on the floor, neatly
laid out against columns, was a variety of fishing equipment.
He picked up a rod and held it out. It was limber, fitted with silk
line and a dry fly. A searching vine-tip had tried to loop around the
reel; he disentangled it. Carrying the rod, he left the temple and
sauntered into the woods. There were no paths, no need of any beneath
the widely spaced trees, yet he seemed to be following a definite
avenue, broad and almost straight. Despite his nakedness and recent
exertions he felt no chill in the shade; there was no tiredness in his
muscles nor discomfort from the ground under his feet.
He passed natural clearings where saplings had not encroached upon
the low-growing plants he recognized as edible, though clearly
uncultivated. There were peas and beans of strange species, large
and succulent, spattered with rainbow tints, purple melons, green
cucumbers, golden-yellow leeks and onions as well as unfamiliar shrubs
with broad green leaves and many kinds of flowers.
In a much larger clearing there was a pool of the same deep blue
as the lake, roughly oval and perhaps twice the size of the little
temple. At one end rushes grew tall, at the other, lotus offered their
heavy flowers haughtily upward. The rest of the pool was covered with
waterlilies and lily pads on which there was constant movement.
He thought they must be teeming with water beetles or very small frogs;
when he squatted at the water's edge he discovered the figures to be
tiny men and women leaping and frolicking on the moss, rolling smooth
pebbles tall as themselves, swimming out to the pads, climbing the
lilies and diving from them, sporting in the water, showing no signs of
alarm at his presence.
He lay down flat for a closer look. Some wore loincloths or loose
robes, most did not. Their graceful movements accented their strength
and endurance; they performed feats easily, which, if done in
proportion by any full-sized man would have exhausted him quickly, yet
these went from one game to another without flagging. They moved so
swiftly it was hard to estimate their number; he thought there might
be fifty of them here. He had no way of knowing if this was all of them
or whether those in sight constituted a part of their number, with the
rest engaged, perhaps, in less active pursuits.
As he became accustomed enough to tell them apart he saw there were no
children among them. Lampley could understand why they should segregate
their young, for some of their amusements were startling even to a
worldly adult; however the simpler variations suggested that they did
perpetuate themselves in the customary way. Except when forced by
circumstance to take a position on obscene literature, sex-offences
or unconventional behavior, Lampley was morally relaxed; he viewed
their recreation with the detached interest of an anthropologist, the
appreciation of an aesthete, the envy of a man past his youth. He
remained silent and watched for quite some time.
* * * * *
He noticed one female wandering apart from the rest, neither joining
the others nor being sought by them. He thought there was dejection or
despondency in the set of her shoulders, in the aimless way she placed
one slender leg before the other or clasped her hands behind her neck.
All of the tiny people were exquisite, but she, because of her repose
and aloofness, seemed even more beautiful than the others. Without
quite intending to, he reached out his free hand and lifted her close
to his face.
She gave no sign of surprise or fear, but stared back into his eyes
whose irises were the size of her head. He marveled at the fineness
of her features, the flowing lines of her body, the gracefulness of
her arms and legs, the regal carriage of her head. Her loveliness was
poignant and perfect. He could not take his eyes from her.
It was impossible for him to put her down again, to part from her,
to walk away as though he had not touched and held her. Guiltily,
furtively, he carried her back to the temple, holding her against his
chest, fearful that the beating of his heart must be a frightening
thunder in her ears. He told himself he would not keep her long; before
she was missed he would take her back.
* * * * *
He placed her on the table and sat on the couch admiring her. The
diminutive face was haughty and sullen but in no way distressed.
Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, falling with seeming
artlessness to her shoulders, her breasts were high and taut--round,
defiant shields--her thighs long and sleek. Even allowing for the
difficulty of discerning blemish in so small a being, the glowing
color, pale yet warm, the smooth hands and feet, the clustered body
hair, all spoke of such flawlessness that he had to control his fingers
lest they close in upon her to squeeze out the essence of beauty.
He whispered, "Do you hear me? Can you understand me?"
She moved her head slightly aside. Whether from outrage, annoyance
or indifference he could not tell. He did not think it was
incomprehension. When he repeated his questions she made no response at
all.
She seemed to weary; he thought he detected an effort to keep her head
erect, her eyelids from drooping. He placed her gently on the couch,
ran a fingertip lightly over her side. She trembled and stiffened. When
he took his hand away she curled in a graceful pose and closed her
eyes. He covered her with one of the furs from the other couch; she did
not move.
He picked up the fishing rod from where he dropped it outside when he
had brought her in. The vines appeared to have grown; he must chop them
closer, root them out if possible, clear the remaining sides entirely.
There was no reason to allow the temple to be covered again.
He strode purposefully back to the lake. By chance he did not arrive at
the cove where the boat was but further along the shore where a narrow
pier, no more than a series of poles stuck into the lake bottom with
planks laid on the cross-pieces, jutted out a few yards over the water.
He walked to the end and gazed into the clear depths. Marine
flowers--vegetable, mineral or animal--wavered in a multitude of
bright hues. Swimming, basking, or feeding among them were myriads of
translucent fish, large and small, silver, blue, red, orange, green,
nacreous gray. Below them flatfish moved slowly, rippling their bodies
in lazy humps. Above them torpedo-shaped swimmers sped madly with
barely perceptible flicks of tail and fins. Just under the surface,
breaking into the air every now and then, thickly clustered schools of
shiny fingerlings raced and darted in confusion.
Lampley was not a practiced angler, he was dubious of his ability to
cast the dry fly and he saw he had brought along the wrong equipment.
He let out a length of line awkwardly and watched the fly float on
the surface, then very slowly sink downward. The excitement which had
fevered him since he came upon the figures at the pool subsided. He was
content.
The crimson fish shot from nowhere at the now invisible fly and the
rod jumped almost from his hands as the reel unwound. The fish ran out
toward the channel, the line lifting clear, like a knife cutting up
through jelly. It circled and leapt, a dazzling blot of whirling color
against the lake's placid blue.
He gained back considerable line before the fish ran again. He reeled
in, the fish dived; each time it took less line. At last Lampley
brought it gasping and thrashing on its side to the end of the pier.
Lying flat, he was able to reach down and hook two fingers under the
distending gills to lift it into the air.
He carried the fish back to the temple. The vines were winding around
the base of the columns again; loose tendrils crept toward each other,
ready to intertwine upon meeting. He came in nervously, eyes averted,
as though by deliberately not searching for her he would assure her
still being there. She was on the couch where he had left her, one tiny
arm--was his memory playing him tricks? It did not seem so small as it
had--thrown over her eyes.
* * * * *
He had no knife to scale the fish, no fire to cook it. He was not
hungry himself but his captive might be. He put his rod away, took the
bronze ax and the fish outside. With the edge of the ax he managed
clumsily to cut the flesh from the backbone in a crude filet, then he
scraped the filet free of the skin. Tentatively he tasted a piece; it
was delicious.
He wished for a gold platter on which to serve food to her. He longed
for a retinue of slaves to prepare her meal, an army of servants to
wait on her. He stood by the couch, sadly deficient, a slice of raw
fish in either hand, eager, tremulous, yet happy.
The woman stirred, opened her eyes, threw off the fur cover with some
effort. She stood erect, stretching, shuddering in obvious pleasure,
pointing first one leg and then the other, massaging her flanks and
stomach sensuously. She had unquestionably grown larger: he could see
the faint, fine down on her arms now, the intricate convolutions of
her ears, the roundness of her navel. She was the length of his hand
instead of less than that of his finger.
He made his voice as low as he could. "Would you like to eat?"
She turned to him as though she had not been aware of his presence
until he spoke, but having learned of it was completely unaffected. She
stretched again and looked up at him disdainfully. With some difficulty
he broke off a crumb of the fish and offered it to her. Her glance did
not waver from his face; she reached out her hands and accepted the
morsel, nibbling it daintily, still staring at him. When she had eaten
it he offered more; she turned away and re-settled herself on the fur,
her back to him, her hip curving high.
He put the rest of the fish on the table and took up the ax. He trimmed
the new growth of vine down to the ground and cleared one of the
short sides. He stopped to sharpen the ax on the stone he had used
for cutting before he discovered it. He freed a corner pillar on the
opposite long side before he put up the ax and went to the pool.
* * * * *
It was deserted. Had he caused them to leave, or brought some worse
disaster on them by stealing the woman! He ran his fingers through the
moss, peered intently at the water plants--they were gone. He was not
cruel or unreasonable; if she would only communicate with him he would
do anything she asked.
He twisted a flat leaf into a cone-shaped cup and filled it with water.
It leaked only one slow drop at a time, a growing, fat, wet pearl which
swelled until its weight detached it. Lampley felt quite complacent
over his cleverness in contriving so tight a cup. He returned to the
temple and sat on the other couch, watching her sleep, holding the
water in readiness. She had not covered herself; she was now the length
of his forearm.
He must have been too intent. She moved and turned, opened her eyes and
stared back at him indignantly. She did not make the slightest attempt
to hide any part of her body from him; she seemed to taunt him with its
promise, so impossible of fulfillment. His hand shook as he held the
leaf out to her. She grasped it and drank, smiling secretively. Instead
of returning it she threw it on the floor, spilling out the water that
was left.
"Would you like to go back to the pool?" he asked.
She did not answer; her full-lipped mouth set in a cruel line. It had
been a stupid question; she was tall enough to slide off the couch
without help and walk to the pool. Tears came to his eyes and his
throat ached at the thought of no longer being able to hold her in
his hand. He implored her to forgive him for having carried her away,
he pled with her to speak to him. He put his ear close to her mouth to
hear her words if she spoke.
She allowed the set of her lips to change without softening. She moved
to the opposite end of the couch, tidying her hair, twisting her head
as though looking in a mirror. He reached out, hesitated, touched her.
He ran his hands and lips over her body, fondled her, half in abject
pleading, half in equally abject desire. She trembled; he knew it was
with rage and loathing, not fear.
With the ax he fell upon the remaining vines, cut them to the earth.
Those he had mutilated before were growing again but they were not high
enough to give him release in chopping them down. When the temple was
cleared all around he came in again and stood looking at her. She was
still taller, still unrelenting. If he had originally wooed instead of
capturing her she could not have regarded him so.
Remorseful, he went once again to the pool. The lotus blossoms had
gone, leaving the dry pods swaying stiffly. The rushes and waterlilies
were brown and brittle, the moss was fuzzy in decay, the edges of the
lily pads were softly rotting. The small people had returned, unchanged
in size--she alone had grown, afflicted by the wrong he had done.
They lay near the edge of the pool in listless attitudes. Their hair
had turned gray or white, they had lost their suppleness, paunches and
wrinkles were visible.
He went away from them, walking slowly through the woods, glancing up
at the light or down at the soft humus underfoot. The trees stopped
short before a saucerlike meadow. Milky-blue poppies grew so thickly
their petals crushed against each other, hiding the stems and ground
beneath. He plunged into them, then halted; sharp stones hurt his feet.
* * * * *
He bent down and pushed the flowers apart. Their roots grew in
twinkling, winking emeralds and rubies of all sizes and cuts. They were
packed loosely enough for air and water to seep in, tightly enough to
make it not easy to work them free and gather a handful. He tried to
select the largest stones, discarding one for another, moving deeper
into the field. His hands and cradled arms full, he let them drop and
chose the smaller, more evenly matched gems. He threw all these away
also and began all over; whatever combinations of size, cut or color he
picked up did not equal the possibilities of this profusion.
Dissatisfied, he turned from the poppies. They had called to him,
promising, then promised again and yet again. He could not--with a
handful of stones such as these--say the promise had not been kept; he
could not say it had.
He paused to bathe his bruised feet in the pool. The lotus plants had
disappeared completely, the rushes drooped brokenly, the lilies floated
like scraps of worthless paper, the lilypads were limp and soggy. The
little people had lost their hair and much of their flesh, their skins
stretched over protruding bones. They did not move save to turn over a
weary hand or draw up a cramped leg.
He came to the temple. The persistent vines had again begun their
climb up the pillars. The woman stood on the couch, her hands over her
breasts, fingers open around the nipples. Her head was level with his
chest; she tilted it to look at him with the same inexorable hate. He
poured the rubies and emeralds at her feet. She glanced down, kicked a
fur casually over them.
"I thought you might like them," he mumbled. "They ... they--"
She hunched up one shoulder. He was sure she understood his words.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, then he saw she had eaten more of the fish.
"Are you thirsty?"
She threw herself down on the furs, buried her face in her elbow.
Resentfully he took the ax and cut back the vines. Those he had chopped
down at first were dry and brittle; they would burn if he had some
way of making fire. He gathered a trailing handful and brought them
inside. Her back was turned as he arranged them on the mosaic. He laid
the flat stone next to them and struck it slantwise with the ax. Some
of the blows resulted in futile sparks but the stems did not ignite.
He gave up; with the fishing rod he returned to the lake. He pushed the
boat into the water and rowed with the current past the pier, heading
for the deeper parts. He laid the rod over the stern and let the way
of the boat pull the line slowly from the reel. The fly stayed on the
surface.
His eyes searched the further shore. Some of the distant mountain peaks
were bare, others were forested to the top. Some fell in palisaded
steps down to the plain, some descended in series of rounded hills,
some sloped evenly. Nearly all carried rivers to the lake. There were
no signs of any way out of the cavern.
* * * * *
On the island side, great trees grew out over the water. From their
boughs fell seed-pods which floated diagonally across the current to
the other shore. Waiting for them at the edge of an extensive swamp
were yellow swans with black beaks who stretched their long necks to
gobble the prizes. They fought among themselves for the tid-bits,
flapping their wings, rising partway into the air, twisting, their
webbed feet tightly curled.
Past the overhanging trees the island curved inward in a wide,
crescent-shaped beach of blue sand. He was tempted to land but the
current carried him on before he could make up his mind. He passed a
flat cape and low bluffs against which the calm lake churned white. He
thought he made out the ruins of a castle far behind the bluffs, but
the quality of the light changed from soft to hazy; what appeared to be
ruins might as well be a natural formation of rock.
He guessed he must be halfway around the island; it was easier to drift
on than row against the current. On the opposite shore animals had come
down to drink, tapirs and zebus, raccoons and gazelles, llamas and
koala bears. A few raised their heads as he passed, the majority paid
no attention.
There was a ruffling of the water and an ominous sucking sound as the
tide changed its easy momentum into an irresistible pull. Furiously the
boat was whirled around--stern, bow, bow, stern--in a dizzying circle.
He rowed with all his might, feathering his oars in panic as often as
not, almost falling backward as they failed to bite. He half rose,
digging them in, pulling desperately, returning, pulling with all his
strength. The boat steadied; the bow pointed straight ahead. Almost
as quickly as he had been caught in the vortex he was free of it. He
inhaled raspingly, dropping his head on his chest.
The lake widened; it was so far across he could barely make out details
on the mainland. The island changed character; forbidding basalt walled
it, interrupted by inlets where the water surged in sullen, angry
obstinacy. Foam gushed and spouted from great holes in the rocks,
adding to the tumult. Lampley thought he saw ships in one of the
inlets--high-prowed, single-masted vessels with low free-boards guarded
by overlapping shields--but like the ruined castle they could have been
oddly shaped masses of rock.
He must have almost circled the island, for he saw the plain he had
followed from the elevator on the further shore. This part of the lake
was placid and the undertow negligible. He put up his oars and took the
rod in his hands, pulling at it so the fly skipped lightly over the
water.
* * * * *
The fish was green and gold, pure colors, unsullied. It was clearly too
heavy for the line. Lampley played it--awkwardly--exhausted it, brought
it to the boat and unhooked it to lie, flopping and dying and turning
a mottled brown, on the floor-boards. He looked down at the cruel,
voracious mouth and felt his own setting in similar lines. He rowed to
the island and landed on an unsheltered beach of reddish sand.
It was a long way to the temple; he began to think he had missed it
when he saw the roof and columns ahead. The vines had made great
progress in his absence; in places they had reached the eaves and were
writhing over the cornice.
She was leaning against a pillar, facing him, one hip slouched lower
than the other. She was nearly four feet tall; her proportions had not
altered, nor did her increased size reveal any imperfection. He was
shaken by the same mixture of awe and lust, admiration and avidity.
When he showed her the fish she went to the table and taking the
scrap left of the first one, threw it out. The emeralds and rubies
lay disregarded on the furs, the pile of withered vines was as he had
left it. He waited with diminishing hope for her to give some further
recognition of his presence. "I have been all around the island," he
said, knowing she would not acknowledge his speech.
* * * * *
He cleared the vines away, wondering if she approved his industry. He
explored the woods until he found a plant on which gourds had dried.
He kicked one, broke off the neck, filled it at the pool. There were
no signs of her people. The gourd did not leak at all as he carried it
back.
She had divided the fish in half, skinned and boned it less wastefully
than he had the other. She was able to work at the table now, though
with some difficulty. Tall as a very small woman she yet retained the
tantalizing, provocative, shameful appeal of her original size. He set
the gourd down shakily.
She took it up as though it had been there all along and she had only
now come to need it, and poured half its contents over herself. It
seemed to him, weak with longing, that she displayed an added, lazy
insolence as she smoothed the water over her breasts and under her
arms, moving in studied tempo, reveling in the pleasure of her own
touch. She walked slowly to the vines and dried herself carefully, over
and over. She neither concealed nor displayed her body; she acted as
though she were alone.
He put his hand on her arm, she looked up at him in the simulated
surprise of cold inquiry. Her lips were pressed together, but not so
firmly as to disfigure their symmetry. Her eyes were gray, with green
and golden flecks; the slight droop of the lids emphasized her look of
disdain. Her skin was smooth as glass. He could wait no longer. He was
consumed with desire for her.
He clasped her, lifted her, threw her on the couch, began kissing her
gluttonously. He tried, first with cunning, then with violence, to part
her lips, to move her arms from their rigid position. She remained
completely passive, her eyes wide open in their implacable scorn. He
paused in his onslaught, begged her to forgive him, to say something,
to voice even a rejection. She lay silent, unmoving, unresisting as he
wept and shouted.
His hands dug into her shoulders, caressed, gripped, pulled at her
body. His mouth smothered hers. He closed his eyes to shut out her
derision, opened them again to see if she had relented. He pressed
himself against her, forced his body into hers. The shock telegraphed
back to him.
She became wild and wanton and responsive. She was avid, insatiable,
shameless. She exhausted him, drained him, wore him into incapacity,
then invited, teased, coaxed, compelled him into fresh lechery. The
element of the perverse, inherent in her size, her captivity, her
unveiled loathing, added the final touch to their ecstasy. They came
together again and again without concession in a rape of the courtesan,
wringing joy out of their enmity.
* * * * *
When he collapsed, exhausted but less than content, she calmly rose and
drank thirstily from the gourd. He watched her easy, fluent movements,
knowing she was conscious of him and of their embrace, knowing that
it signified no intimacy to her, that she was untouched. "Won't you
forgive me?" he begged. "Won't you speak, or at least show you hear?"
She combed her long hair with her fingers and twisted it deftly into
place. She lifted one leg, bent at the knee, and studied her foot. She
sauntered to the columns and stood at the edge of the temple looking
out, her back to him.
He made himself get up and go to her, kneeling at her feet. Even in
his abjection he could not refrain from embracing her legs, resting
his cheek against her flesh. She stood quietly, as though waiting for
his next move. When he did nothing beyond implore her pardon, she
disengaged herself calmly, turned away, and walked to the opposite row
of columns.
It no longer seemed imperative to keep the vines chopped down. He
let them grow at will except on the one side he kept cleared. Though
he knew no hunger save for her, he fished and fetched water for
her to drink and bathe. He thought she must tire of the monotonous
diet, remembering the berries he brought her gourdsful. She ate them
greedily. When her mouth was stained with the juice he could not
control his longing; he took her once more. She responded as before; as
before she remained inviolable.
She grew no more, and this pleased him, guaranteeing as it did a
continued mutual enslavement. In midcycle between his despair after
forcing her and helplessness before doing so again, he gloated over her
smallness, her estrangement from everyone but him.
He did not return to the pool. Instead, he made the longer journey
to the lake for water. He went back to the poppies by a roundabout
route, picked an armful, leaving the gems in which they were rooted
undisturbed. She let them lie at her feet where he had placed them.
On his next homecoming to the temple she had made a fire, succeeding
where he had failed. It burned swiftly on the mosaic, consuming the
dried vines as quickly as she could feed them to it. He took the ax
and cut some green boughs, chopping them into convenient lengths. With
these and the vines the fire could be kept alive, smoking, not giving
out any warmth, but adequate to cook the fish he caught.
* * * * *
She took a portion of whatever he brought her--fish, fruit,
flowers--and sacrificed it in the fire. When she was not sleeping,
bathing, preening or standing looking out, she sat beside the embers,
quiet, absorbed. Though he knew her indifference was unfeigned,
this additional withdrawal added to his torment. When it became
unendurable--when his lust and pique and desire to master her overcame
his submissiveness--he attacked her and met her raging passion.
Otherwise she did not acknowledge his presence directly. She put
his portion of cooked food on the table for him, throwing it out
indifferently when it was left uneaten. Watching her sleep, tending
the fire or brooding, he felt the outrage of her denial. His conquest
of her body should have brought submission, escape, revenge, gradual
conciliation--change of some sort--not refuge in her unfailing
imperviousness. She had gelded him without giving him a eunuch's
compensations. Sometimes, tormented by frustration, he took her
brutally, more often he approached her with tenderness and deference,
only to be frenzied into ruthlessness by her apathy.
Finally he knew she was with child. He became slavish in his anxiety,
his solicitude, his devotion. He tried to care for her, to watch over
her food, her rest, her exertions. She submitted to his attentions when
it was unavoidable, she showed no pleasure or gratitude. Swollen, she
moved slowly, lay from meal to meal on the couch with her eyes open.
He stayed close to the temple, hurrying back from his errands,
resisting the temptation to explore the island. When the child was
born he would bathe it in warmed water, wrap it in soft leaves, cover
it with the furs. After the birth some way of reconciling himself to
her would be miraculously revealed, she would speak, he would discover
a means of communicating with her people and reviving them. He would
cherish the child, protect, nourish, develop, teach, encourage it; it
would be the means of establishing himself not only with her but with
this place.
A somber, thought-cloying dread hung upon his mind. He walked warily,
glancing frequently over his shoulder. If she wanted to leave the
temple there was nothing to stop her; so soon as she had grown tall
enough to get down from the couch by herself she could have walked
away. He knew she would not go yet he feared to find her gone; always
when he returned it was a shocking relief that she was there. He
babbled to her at length of his apprehensions, he prayed her to assure
him she would change, would relent after she bore his child, that
nothing would part them.
While she slept he put his hand timidly on her belly and felt the life
in it. The thought excited him; he was ashamed of his excitement.
He knelt beside the couch to touch her knees and thighs in selfless
purity. He kissed her hands, her temples, her hair; when she stirred
and frowned, he retreated, hoping she would not waken.
She was near to labor when he heard the shouts and the clang of metal
against metal. He ran to her, ready to protect her and the child with
his life. She moved away, always keeping a space between them. No one
coming upon them could imagine she wanted his assistance or that he had
established any right to offer it.
The barbarians burst into sight, waving swords, holding their round
shields high above their heads. Their crooked teeth flashed, their
mouths opened in wild yells, their rough garments flew back to show
their coarse, hairy bodies.
He tried to pull her with him, to lift her in his arms and carry her
outside. She resisted obstinately, fiercely, desperately, clinging to
the couch, to the table, showing to the full the revulsion and hate in
her eyes.
The invaders passed the open side of the temple; Lampley could not
believe they had failed to see it or that it hadn't excited their
curiosity. Yet they did not turn aside; incredible or not, they were
saved. The last one was out of sight when the woman screamed.
He clapped his hand over her mouth; the barbarians came from the
side he had let the vines overrun again, cleaving their way through,
trampling out the fire, smashing the water gourd, scattering the latest
gifts he had brought. They saw and came at him, pointing their weapons
so that he could see the faint kinks in the crudely forged steel. He
tried to stay, willed himself to meet the swords' edge. Only when she
threw her arms around the foremost warrior, offering her ripe belly to
his blade, casting a triumphant, malignant look in Lampley's direction,
did he finally give in and fly.