The Corn King and the Spring Queen. Naomi Mitchison

looked down at her, standing there by the table, making ink patterns on his finger-nails with her pen, and wondered what to answer. He did not think it was happiness that made him laugh, he was not the least sure what were his feelings for Erif Der, except that he wanted to get possession of her; he knew that she was somehow dangerous.

      His aunt knew that too. She went on: ‘Have you spoken to Harn Der?’

      ‘No,’ he said.

      ‘To Yellow Bull, then?’ He shook his head. ‘But surely you’ve seen someone besides the child herself?’

      ‘She’s not a child,’ said the Chief.

      ‘All the more reason, then, that she should not answer for herself. But—Charmantides —you know I have tried to be a mother to you, since your own mother died. I think you have loved me. Why did you not tell me about this before?’

      He began to elaborate the patterns on his fingers interestedly. ‘I didn’t know.’

      ‘Are you sure? Not at Plowing Eve?’

      He smiled: he liked thinking of Plowing Eve. Yes, she had been the best Spring Queen whom he had ever led through the needful dance—and afterwards, how the men had enjoyed themselves. … But he had not thought of marrying her then. ‘No,’ he said truthfully, ‘it was only now.’

      ‘Then, if it was only now, surely you see that this is not natural, not right? Surely you know, Charmantides, the things she can do. This is magic and done for some purpose of hers or her father’s!’

      ‘Very likely,’ said the Chief, ‘perhaps that was why I was laughing. But I am going to marry her all the same.’

      ‘Why?’ said Eurydice. ‘Oh why!’

      ‘Because I like to,’ he said, and looked out of the window. Cloud and sunshine swept over the sea; and below him on the beach was Erif Der, standing on a bollard, her fists clenched over her breasts, looking up at the Chief’s house. Abruptly Tarrik began to laugh again. ‘I am going to see Harn Der,’ he said, and went striding out, his white felt coat swinging stiffly as he went.

      As he walked along the streets of Marob, the men he passed saluted him with drawn knife at the forehead, and any girls who were armed did the same, but most of the women just lifted hand lightly to eyes, looking at him softly from under long lashes, hoping he would turn their way, the truth being that they and all the younger men liked Tarrik far better than old Harn Der and the Council, who would rule them for their good, but for no one’s pleasure. Still, it depended on little, it would come and go, and Tarrik could only be young once. He certainly enjoyed himself, and had broken very few hearts for long; most of his loves were married by now, and not at all angry with him, still looking softly even. There were several possible children, but none quite proved or at all acknowledged. At any rate Erif Der knew as much about it as anyone.

      Tarrik answered the salutes and glances more or less; but he was not thinking about them. Nor, for that matter, about what he was going to do now. He was making a charming plan for killing two birds with one stone; actually, that is to say, killing one of them, and as to the other, well, Yellow Bull was an extremely worthy young man—in spite of his having such a ridiculously red, scrubby face! A knot of girls at the street corner giggled to one another with speculations as to why the Chief was laughing out loud all by himself; but this time they were wrong. He stopped at a window and called up: ‘Oh, Epigethes!’ The Greek leaned out, his face changing to suspicion and some fear when he saw it was the Chief. ‘Will you come and ride with me?’ Tarrik shouted up. ‘Down south, to see Berris Der’s brother. In three weeks? We will talk about art, Epigethes.’ There was something about this that terrified Epigethes. ‘But I shall be busy, Chief,’ he said. ‘I have been given work to do by your nobles. I am an artist, I have no time for riding.’ ‘Ah yes,’ said Tarrik, ‘but I command you. Remember you are in my country. You know,’ he went on, happily watching the Greek getting more and more frightened, ‘I am a barbarian, and if I were to lose my temper—I can take it, then, that you are coming when I am ready?’ And he walked on. Then after a few minutes he stopped and blew three times with his fingers in his mouth, making a curiously loud and unpleasant whistle. Almost at once a shock-headed man in a black coat ran up to him. ‘See that there is no ship in my harbour to take Epigethes away,’ said Tarrik, laying a finger on the man’s arm.

      By the time he came to the flax market it was almost sunset; people were going home to supper. A small boy was sitting on the well curb in the middle, singing at the top of his voice and kicking his bare heels against the stone. Tarrik came and sat beside him. The boy looked round and gave a mock salute, and went on till the end of his song; then, in the same breath: ‘Are you coming to supper with us, Tarrik? You must!’

      Tarrik pulled his hair, gently and affectionately: ‘Nobody asked me, Gold-fish,’ he said. ‘I want to see your father, though. And I’m going to marry your sister.’

      Gold-fish slid off the curb and stared. ‘Has she magicked you?’ he asked.

      ‘I expect so,’ said Tarrik. ‘Does she ever magic you, Gold-fish?’

      ‘Can’t magic me!’ said the small boy proudly; then, truth getting the better of him, ‘At least, she won’t try. She’s horrid sometimes—I did ask her. But she wouldn’t be able. She magics Wheat-ear: easily.’

      ‘Will Wheat-ear do magic too, when she’s grown up?’

      ‘No,’ said Gold-fish, ‘she’s just plain. She’s my special sister.’

      They went into Harn Der’s house together; supper was ready on the table. Erif Der and a woman-slave were lighting candles, but when she saw it was Tarrik, she bade the woman run and get the great lamp and tell her master. Meanwhile she went on lighting the candles herself, and, though her face was steady, her hands were shaking.

      Harn Der came in with the lamp carried behind him; the slave went out, and then Erif Der with her little brother. ‘Harn Der,’ said Tarrik, ‘best of my councillors, I am come to ask for your daughter Erif Der to be my wife.’

      For a time Harn Der said nothing. At last he spoke. ‘My son Berris told me what was in your mind. It is not a thing to be lightly thought of or spoken of. All Marob will be either better or worse for your marriage, Chief. I cannot answer alone. I have here some of the Council: with your leave, I will call them in.’

      ‘Call them if you like,’ said Tarrik, rapidly and crossly, ‘if you must make it an affair for Marob! But remember, I’m going to have Erif.’ Harn Der did not answer this, but went to the door and called. Ten of the Council came in, oldish men, the best and most trusted by every one; a little behind came Yellow Bull, awkwardly, playing with his sword hilt. They all had gold chains and brooches, and long cloaks of embroidery with fur borders. Tarrik thought with pleasure how hot they must be. He stood beside the table, pinching one of the candles; the warm, sweet wax gave, half reluctantly, under the pressure of his fingers, and he thought of Erif Der. ‘None of you will oppose my marriage?’ he asked, with a kind of growl at them.

      One of the older men spoke: ‘The marriage of the Chief should be a matter for the full Council.’

      ‘The full Council can pretend to give me leave tomorrow,’ said Tarrik; ‘meanwhile, I want it settled. When shall I have Erif Der?’

      The elders coughed and fidgeted. Why should their Chief treat them like this? Yellow Bull flushed angrily. Harn Der spoke with a certain impressiveness: ‘If the Council see fit, my eldest daughter shall be the Chief’s wife. I cannot think that there is anything against her in blood or in person.’ The others assented. He went on: ‘But it would be less than right if this were not well considered or in any way gone into hurriedly. Let us not speak of marriage until autumn.’

      ‘Autumn!’ said Tarrik. ‘Six months! I want a wife and you tell me to wait till she is an old woman!’ He banged his hand so hard down on to the table that one of the candles fell over, and looked round savagely at the Council. ‘None of you remember what it was like being a man; but I am a man and I am asking