Lyonesse II - The Green Pear and Madouc (16 page)

Melancthe responded flatly: “That is because I am not truly a human being.”

“Who taught you this? Tamurello?”

Melancthe gave an indifferent nod. “These are dull topics. When will you leave?”

“Soon. But tell me this: why did Tamurello teach you such extraordinary folly?”

“He taught me nothing. I know nothing. My mind is empty, like the dark places behind the stars.”

Shimrod asked: “Do you consider me human?”

“So I would guess.”

“I am Murgen’s scion.”

“This is something I do not understand.”

“At a time now far in the past, Murgen went abroad in this guise, that he might act and do and see as someone other than the fabulous Murgen. I know nothing of those times; Murgen controlled my deeds and the memories are his. Eventually, through usage, Shimrod took on substance and became real, and no longer was he connected with Murgen.

“Now I am Shimrod. Should I not think myself a man? I look like a man. I hunger and thirst; I eat and drink and in due course void the dross. I am gladdened by joy and I weep tears for grief. When I see your beauty I feel a wistful longing which is both sweet and hurtful. In short, I am all too human, and if not, I notice nothing of the lack.”

Melancthe looked back to the sea. “My shape is human; my body like yours performs its functions; I see, I hear, I taste. But I am empty. I have no emotion. I do nothing but walk the beach.”

Shimrod moved to sit on the couch beside her. He put his arm around her shoulders. “Let me fill the emptiness.”

Melancthe showed him a sardonic sideglance. “I am well enough as I am.”

“You will be better when you are different. Far better.”

Melancthe pulled away and went to stand by the window.

Shimrod, with nothing more to say, chose this moment to depart, and did so without words of farewell.

On the following day Shimrod went back to the white villa, calculatedly at the same time. If Melancthe followed her routine of yesterday, he would learn something of her mood. He waited beside the terrace for an hour but Melancthe failed to appear. At last he went thoughtfully back to Ys.

During the late afternoon the fine weather failed before a fresh breeze from the west; a high mesh of cirrus flew at speed across the sky, and the sun sank into a purple bank of nimbus.

In the morning brightness and gloom struggled to control the landscape. Shafts of sunlight burst down through rents in the clouds, only to be constricted and shut off. So it went until afternoon, when black walls of rain swept in from the sea.

Late in the day Shimrod, on impulse, threw a cloak around his shoulders and, after making a purchase at the market, strode down the beach to the white villa. He climbed the steps, crossed the terrace and made his presence known by rapping upon the carved wooden door.

He discovered no response and rapped again. At last the door opened a crack and the serving maid looked out. “Lady Melancthe is receiving no guests.”

Shimrod pushed through the door. “Excellent; we will not be disturbed by intruders. I will be staying for supper; here are some excellent cutlets. Broil them properly with herbs and serve a good red wine. Where is Melancthe?”

“In the parlour with the fire.”

“I will find my way.”

The maid went dubiously to her kitchen. Shimrod, looking from room to room, presently discovered the parlour: a chamber with white walls and an oak-beamed ceiling. Melancthe stood warming herself by the fire. As Shimrod came into the room, she looked over her shoulder, then turned moodily back to look down into the flames.

Shimrod approached. Without looking at him she said: “I knew that you would come tonight.”

Shimrod put his arm around her waist and drawing her close, kissed her. He found no response; he might as well have kissed the back of his hand. “Well then-are you pleased to see me?”

“No.”

“But neither are you trembling with anger?” “No.”

“I kissed you once before; do you remember?” Melancthe turned to face him. Shimrod understood that he was about to hear a well-rehearsed statement. “I remember almost nothing of that occasion. Tamurello instructed me exactly. I was to promise you anything and, if need be, accede to any demand you might make of me. It proved not to be necessary.”

“And the promises: are they to be broken?”

“They were’spoken through my mouth, but they were Tamurello’s promises. You must look to him for their satisfaction.” And Melancthe smiled down into the fire.

Shimrod, still with his arm around her waist, pulled her close and put his face to her hair, but she detached herself and went to sit on the couch.

Shimrod came to sit beside her. “I am not the world’s wisest man, as well you know. Still, there is much which I can teach you.”

“You pursue an illusion,” said Melancthe, almost contemptuously. “How so?”

“You are affected by the look of my body. If you looked at me and saw a wrinkled yellow skin and a crooked nose with warts, you would not be here tonight, and even if you were you would not kiss me.”

“There is no denying any of this,” said Shimrod. “Still, I am hardly unique. Would you choose to live in such a body?”

“I am accustomed to this one; and I know it is beautiful. Still, what lives inside the body is something which is probably not at all beautiful.”

The serving maid entered the room. “Shall I lay supper in here by the fire?”

Melancthe looked around in puzzlement. “I ordered no supper.”

“This gentleman brought out some fine cutlets and commanded that they be properly cooked, and so they are: broiled over vine cuttings, with garlic and lemon and a whiff of thyme, and there is a new loaf, some nice fresh peas and the good red wine is ready to drink.”

“Serve us in here, then.”

During the meal Shimrod worked to achieve an atmosphere of warmth and ease, with little encouragement from Melancthe. Immediately after the supper, she announced that she was tired and intended to retire to her bed.

“There is rain,” Shimrod observed. “I will stay tonight.”

“The rain has stopped,” said Melancthe. “Go now, Shimrod; I want no one in my bed save myself.”

Shimrod rose to his feet. “I can depart as graciously as the next man. Melancthe, I wish you good night.”

A STEADY GRAY RAIN DISCOURAGED SHIMROD from new Ventures up the beach. Tactical considerations also gave him pause: an excess of zeal might do his cause more harm than good. For the moment enough had been done. He had brought the unique flavor of his personality to Melancthe’s attention; he had shown himself to be gentle, steadfast, entertaining and considerate; he had demonstrated a reassuring degree of ordinary human lust: more might have been considered coarse; less would have demeaned Melancthe’s charm and caused her to wonder about both herself and him.

Shimrod sat in the common room of the Rope and Anchor, his favorite of the dockside taverns, drinking ale, watching the rain, and musing upon Melancthe.

She was, beyond question, a fascinating case. Her beauty was a vast treasure; her body seemed too slight to support so urgent a weight. Shimrod wondered: could this beauty alone be the source of her attraction? Where else was her charm?

Looking out across the rainswept water, Shimrod listed those endearing traits common to all lovable and beloved women. Melancthe lacked them all, including the mysterious and indefinable quality of femininity itself.

Melancthe had asserted the emptiness of her mind; Shimrod saw that he had no choice but to believe her. Conspicuously absent were curiosity, humour, warmth and sympathy. She used that total candor which was not truly honesty so much as indifference to the sensibilities of those who heard her. He could remember no trace of emotion other than boredom and the mild repugnance she seemed to feel for him.

Shimrod ruefully drank his ale and looked up the beach, but the white villa could not be seen for the rain… . He. nodded slowly to himself, awed by the profundity of a new concept. Melancthe represented the witch Desmei’s last act and her final revenge on Man. Melancthe in her present state was a blankness upon which every man might project his idealized version of ultimate beauty, but when he tried to possess this beauty and make it his own, he would discover a void, and so, according to his capacity, suffer as Desmei had suffered!

Assuming these conjectures to be correct, mused Shimrod, how would they affect Melancthe, were she to learn of them? If she knew her condition, how ardently might she wish to change it? Could she change, even if she wished to do so?

Aillas came into the tavern. He went to dry himself by the fire, then he and Shimrod took their supper in an alcove to the side of the common room. Shimrod inquired as to the new Ulf army and Aillas declared himself not at all discouraged.

“Indeed, taking all with all, I could expect no better progress. Every day I get a new influx of recruits and the number grows. Today there were fifty-five: strong young lads down from the moors and mountains, each as brave as a lion and each prepared to teach me the lore of warfare, which is hiding in the gorse until a sufficiently small group of the enemy happens to pass, after which throats are cut, purses are ransacked, and swift retreat is made; that is all there is to it.”

“And what of your nine recalcitrant barons?”

“I am happy to report that all presented themselves before the appointed time. None were precisely humble, but the point has been made and I was not forced to march up into the moors-not yet, at any rate.”

“They still watch and wait, and wonder how best to circumvent you.”

“True, and sooner or later I will be forced to hang a number of incredulous Ulfs, when I would much prefer that they kill themselves fighting the Ska, and even these young Ulf firebrands talk in subdued voices when the Ska are mentioned.”

“This should encourage them to learn Ska discipline.”

“Unfortunately they are convinced that the Ska can eat them alive, and the battle is lost before the armies so much as face each other. I will have to bring them to it very gradually and rely upon my Troice troops until we win a few victories. Then their pride and manhood will be called into question, and they will be anxious to outdo the Troice outlanders.”

“Assuming, of course, that you can beat them with your Troice army.”

“I have few fears on that score. The Ska are military experts, no question as to this, but they are relatively few, and each man must fight like five. On the obverse, each Ska casualty is like five, and that is my plan: to bleed them white.”

“You seem resigned to a war with the Ska.”

“How can it be avoided? In the Ska program, South Ulfland must necessarily be next on the list. As soon as they feel strong enough they will try us out, but not before I am ready for them, or so I hope.”

“And when hostilities occur?”

“I will not attack their strength, that is certain. If I had the full support of the barons, my way would be easier.” Aillas drank from his goblet. “Today I heard a strange report, from Sir Kyr, who is second son to Sir Kaven, of Black Eagle Keep. Three days ago a knight, purportedly Daut from Dahaut’s Western March, stopped by Black Eagle Keep. He named himself Sir Shalles and reported in all seriousness that soon there will be a war and that King Casmir will conquer Troicinet, so that all those who ally themselves with King Aillas now will be driven from their castles. Better, he says, to organize a secret cabal of resistance in the defense of Ulf liberties.”

Shimrod chuckled. “I assume that you are looking for Sir Shalles.”

“Most definitely. Sir Kyr himself rides at speed for the moors, that he may track down Sir Shalles, capture him and bring him here.”

THE RAINS DEPARTED; dawn was clear and soft. In the square Shimrod noticed Melancthe’s serving maid arriving at the market with a basket. Shimrod went to speak to her. “Good morning to you! It is I, Shimrod!”

“I remember you well, sir; you have a fine taste in cutlets.”

“And you have a fine hand in their broiling!”

“That is true, if I myself must admit it. Part of the virtue lies in the vine cuttings; nothing does so well for pork.”

“I could not agree more. Was your mistress appreciative?”

“Ah, she is a strange one; sometimes I doubt if she knows what she eats, and cares much less. I notice that she picked the bones of the cutlets, and I will buy some more today, and perhaps a pair of plump fowl. These I like to cut small and fry in olive oil with much garlic, and turn out the whole dish, oil and all, over bread.”

“You have the soul of a poet. Perhaps I will-”

The maid interrupted him. “I am sorry to say that I am no longer allowed to admit you to the house. This is a pity, since the lady is in need of someone to admire her. She is so sad that I suspect an enchantment.”

“Not impossible! Does Tamurello come to call?”

“In truth, I know of no one who visits her, save yourself and yesterday certain factors from the town, that they might mark her on their rolls.”

“Surely a most solitary life!”

The maid hesitated. “Perhaps I should not say this, but tonight is the night of the half-moon waning, and when the weather is fine Lady Melancthe leaves the house an hour before midnight, and returns somewhat later; after moondown. Truly, I fear for her, since this is not altogether a kind coast.”

“You are wise to tell me this.” Shimrod gave the maid a gold crown. “This will help when you marry.”

“Indeed it will, and my thanks to you! Please do not take it to heart if I say that you may not come again to the house.”

“I wonder why.”

“The lady evidently finds nothing in you to amuse her, and that is the truth of it.”

“Most strange!” said Shimrod despondently. “I have sueceeded with ladies of every degree, from high to low. A fairy damsel at one time became my lover; the Duchess Lydia of Loermel conferred significant favors upon me. Yet here, on this barren and almost forgotten coast a maiden living alone in a villa bars me from her sight. Is it not a farce?”

“Very strange, sir!” The maid dimpled. “Were you to come knocking on my door, I would not turn you away.”