3: THE NET

The setting moon, shining through a crack in the shutters, fell upon the dirty, ragged bedclothes and on the one bare leg which Maia, asleep in her shift, had thrust out to lie along a bench beside the bed. The bed had become too narrow for both herself and Nala, and Maia, who, however bitterly she might quarrel with Morca, was for the most part generous and kindly towards her sisters, had taken to sleeping with one leg out on the bench so that Nala could be more at ease. On summer nights such as this the arrangement was not really troublesome, except that turning over was tricky. However, Maia usually fell asleep quickly and slept sound.

In the foetid air behind the closed wooden shutters, flies buzzed and droned about the room, and from time to time the gnawing of a mouse sounded from somewhere along the wall by the hearth. Tharrin, awake beside the sleeping Morca, drew the curtain a crack and lay watching the shaft of moonlight as it slowly travelled across Maia's bare shoulders and tumbled curls.

Moonlight is commonly believed to induce dreams, and certainly Maia was dreaming. Tharrin could hear her murmuring in her sleep. Yet into the world within her solitary head he could not follow.

At first her dream was formless, possessed of no images from the waking world; there was only an awareness of shining, misty distance; an empty place of opalescent light. Then, looking down, she saw that she was clothed all in flowers; not merely hung about with them, as on the waterfall the evening before, but clad in a long robe made entirely of scented, brilliant blooms such as she had never seen in her life.

"I am the Queen of Bekla!" she pronounced; yet without speaking; for miraculously, her every thought was a royal utterance automatically heard by multitudes waiting silently round her. Slowly, magnificently, she paced between them towards her carriage; for, as she knew, she was to ride through the city to some sacred destination, there to fulfill her role of queen.

The carriage, curved and faintly lustrous like a shell, stood waiting. To either side of its red-painted pole was harnessed a white, long-horned goat. Each, scarlet-plumed and gold-tasselled, was hung about, as though for market, with all manner of fruit and vegetables—beans in their long pods, bunches of carrots; marrows and pendent green cucumbers. Some shadowy, half-seen person was waiting to lead them, but she waved him aside.

"I will drive them: they are mine." And, grasping the shaft of a cloven-headed goad which stood in a holster beside her seat, she pricked and urged them forward.

Now, as though swimming in choppy water, she was rocking on through unseen crowds like waves, swaying, moving up and down as her goats bore her through an applauding city all tumult. Between her legs she was holding a hollowed gourd full of ripe figs, and these she tossed in handfuls to either side.

"They're for everyone! Everyone is to have them!" she cried. There was scrambling, tussling and a smell of crushed figs, but of all this she was aware without discerning anyone out of a concourse formless as lake-mist. Yet she knew that even in the midst of their admiration she was in deadly danger. A great, fat man was guzzling and stuffing himself with her figs. He had the power to kill her, yet she drove past him unharmed, for a black girl was holding him back.

Amid the cheering crowds she reached her destination. It was the ash-tree by the lake. Reining in her goats she scrambled out, climbed to the bough over the water and lay along it, looking down. Yet it was not her own face she saw below her, but that of an old, gray man, gazing kindly yet gravely up at her from the green depths. He was himself a denizen of waterways and water; that much she knew. She wondered whether he was actually lying stretched beneath the surface, or whether what she saw was only a reflection and he behind her. Yet as she turned her head to look, the boughs began to sway and rustle, a bright light dazzled her and she woke to find the moonlight in her eyes.

For some time she lay still, recalling the dream and repeating in her mind a proverb once told to her by her father.

If you want your dream made real, 

Then to none that dream reveal. 

If you want your dream to die, 

Tell it ere the sun is high.

She remembered the dream vividly; not merely what she had seen, but chiefly what she had felt—the all-informing atmosphere of a splendor composed of brilliant yet come-by trappings, their bizarre nature unquestioned while the dream held sway. The splendor—and the danger. And the strange old man in the water. She could not tell whether or not she wanted that dream to come true. Anyway, how could it?

Ah, but suppose she took no steps to stop it coming true? Then it might come true in its own way—in some unexpected, unbeautiful way—like the disregarded prophecies in the hero-tales that Tharrin sometimes told, or the ballads sung by Drigga, the kindly old woman who lived up the lane. And if it were to come true, would she know at the time, or only afterwards?

She felt hungry. Listening intently and holding her breath, she could just catch the sound of Morca's regular breathing from behind the curtain. The girls were forbidden to help themselves to food. Morca would have liked to be able to lock the cupboard-like recess that served for a larder, but a Gelt lock was a luxury far beyond the household's means. Maia had never even seen one.

She slipped out of bed, pulled on her half-mended smock and tiptoed across to the larder. The door was fastened with a length of cord, and this she untied with scarcely a sound. Groping, her hand found a lump of bread and some cold fish left over from Tharrin's supper. Taking them, she tied the cord again, stole to the door, raised the bar and stepped out into the clear, grey twilight of the early summer morning.

Bird song was growing all around her, and from the lake came a harsh, vibrating cry and a watery scuttering. She crouched, clasping her knees, and made water in the grass; then, picking fragments of fish off the bone as she went, she wandered slowly down to the ash-tree and climbed to her accustomed branch.

Resting her arms before her as she lay prone along the branch, she laid her forehead on them and breathed the air thus imprisoned in the cave between bosom and forearms. The bread was hard, and she held it for a little while in her armpit before biting and gulping it down. Just as she finished it, a brilliant shaft of light shot all across the lake and the rim of the sun appeared above the further shore three miles away.

The glittering water, dazzling her, reminded her once more of her dream. "If you want your dream made real—" Suddenly an idea occurred to her. Dreams, as everyone knew, came from Lespa of the Stars, the beautiful consort of the god Shakkarn. Lespa had sent this dream, and therefore Lespa must know all about it. She, Maia, would give it back to her, confess her own incomprehension and beg the goddess to do as she thought best. In this way she would both have told and not have told her dream.

Pulling off her clothes, she laid them across the branch and then, swinging a moment on her arms, lightly dropped the ten feet to the water. A quick shock of cold, to which she was well-accustomed, a blowing of her nose and sluicing of her eyes, and she was swimming easily, on her back, out into the lake lying smoother than snakeskin in the sun.

Now she was resting still on the surface, more alone than in the grass, more easy than in bed, gazing up into the early-morning, pale-blue dome of the sky.

"Hear me, sweet Lespa, thou who from thy silver stars dost sprinkle the world with dreams. Behold, I give thee back thy dream, not ungratefully, but in bewilderment. Do for me as may be best, I humbly pray thee."

"Maia! Ma—ia!"

Maia dropped her legs, treading water, pushed back her hair and looked quickly round towards the shore. It was Morca's voice, strident and sharp, and now she could see Morca herself standing by the door of the cowshed, shading her eyes and staring out across the lake.

She could see Morca. Why could Morca not see her? Then she realized why. Morca was looking straight into the risen sun, and her own head—all of her that was above water—must appear as a mere dot in the path of light streaming across the lake. Turning, she began swimming away, directly into the sun, taking care to leave scarcely a ripple on the surface.

It was nearly two hours before she returned, wading ashore near the ash-tree and pausing a few moments to brush the water from her body and limbs before climbing up to her clothes. As she strolled up towards the cabin, Nala came running down to meet her.

"Where've you been, Mai?"

"Where d'you think? In the lake."

"Mother's been looking for you everywhere. She was that angry!"

"That's a change. Where is she now?"

"Gone to market in Meerzat. She's taken Kelsi with her. She was going to tell you all the things you had to do while she's gone, but she's told them to me instead and I'm to tell you."

"Well, for a start I'm going to mend the net for Tharrin. He said so last night. Where's Tie got to, anyway?"

"I don't know. He went up the lane. Let me tell you what mother said, otherwise I'll never remember."

"All right, but I shan't do no more 'n what I want."

She was lying near the shore in the warm sun. All around her were spread the folds of the big net, and through her smock she could feel its knotted mesh against her back. She had piled up part of the mass behind her like a couch, and was now reclining at ease, the rent she was mending opened across her lap.

Tar, cord, wax, twine and knife lay about her, conveniently to hand. Her fingers were covered with streaks of tar and felt sore from all the knotting and pulling tight.

The flies buzzed, the water glittered and from somewhere behind her a bluefinch repeated its song over and over. Dropping a handful of the net, she fell into a day-dream. "Queen of Bekla"—she knew what the Sacred Queen in Bekla had to do, for Tharrin had once told her, with much sniggering detail, about the great craftsman Fleitil's brazen image of Cran, that marvel of dedicated artistry; which, in answer to her abashed but fascinated questioning, he was forced to admit he had never seen for himself. "And if she didn't do it, lass, the crops wouldn't grow—nothing would grow."

"You mean, not any longer at all?" she had asked.

He chuckled. "Nothing would grow any longer. Not mine or anyone else's. Wouldn't that be terrible?"

"I don't understand."

"Ah, well, there's plenty of time. Every apple falls in time, you know." And, pinching her arm and laughing, he was off to the tavern.

She settled herself more comfortably in the net, stretched and yawned. The job was nearly finished.

There would be about another half-hour's work. Once she had taken on a task for Tharrin she liked to take pains to please him: but this had been a long, dull, careful job and now she felt weary of it. She was overcome by a sudden, depressing sense of the monotony of her life; dull food, rough, dirty clothes, too much work and tedious, unvarying companionship. Save for her solitary escapes to the lake it was seldom enough, she reflected, that she got away. Last year Tharrin had taken them all to the wine festival at Meerzat—a piffling enough sort of affair, he'd called it, compared with those he had known in Ikat and Thettit. And yet, she thought resentfully, it was the best she was ever likely to see. "Queen of Bekla"—She felt herself to be beautiful, she felt confidence in her beauty—oh, ah, she thought, beautiful in dirt and rags, in a hovel on the Tonildan Waste. Mend the nets, gather the firewood, mind the banzi, don't eat so much, there isn't enough to go round. If only there could be something sweet to eat, she thought—and swallowed the saliva that filled her mouth at the longing.

She felt drowsy. Her deft fingers recommenced their work, then faltered and paused, lying still as she leant back in the soft, resilient thickness of the piled net and closed her eyes. The breeze, the wavelets lapping on the shore, the leaves of the ash-tree, the flies darting in the bright air—all these were in motion above and around her, so that she herself seemed like a still centre, a sleeping princess, motionless save for the gentle rise and fall of her bosom under the self-mended dress.

She woke with a start, conscious that someone was standing beside her. She half-sprang up, then lay back, laughing with relief as she realized that it was only Tharrin.

"Oh—Tharrin—oh, you give me such a turn! I'd dropped off for a moment. Don't matter, I've done most of it, look. It's done proper, too—won't go again in 'urry."

He lay down beside her, leaning on his elbow and gazing up at her intently. As he still said nothing she felt a touch of nervousness.

"What's up, then, Tharrin? Nothin' wrong, is there?"

At this he smiled. "No, nothing," he answered, laying a hand on her bare forearm. "Nothing at all."

"Well, go on, look at it, then! I've made a good job of it, you c'n see that."

He began picking over the mended places, lifting the net in his two hands and idly testing the knotting between his fingers. She saw that they were trembling slightly and felt still more puzzled.

"You all right? What's matter then?"

Suddenly he flung one entire fold of the net over her from head to foot and, as she struggled beneath the mesh, pushed her back into the piled folds, laughing and pressed his hands down on her shoulders. She laughed, too, for she had often romped with him before; but then quickly shook her head, throwing one hand up to her face.

"Ow! You caught me in the eye, Tharrin—do look out—"

"I've caught a fish! A golden fish! What a beauty!"

"No, honesty Tharrin, it hurts! Look, does it show?" And, still lying under the net, she turned her face towards the light, pulling down her lower eyelid as the water ran down her cheek.

"I'm sorry, Maia fish! Oh, I didn't mean to hurt you! Here, let me kiss it better."

He took her head, wrapped in the net, between his hands and kissed her eyelid through the mesh.

"Want to come out, pretty fish? Ask nicely!"

She pouted. "I'm not bothered. I'll come out when I please!"

"Well, I'm in no hurry either, come to that." And with this he pulled aside the fold, lay down beside her and drew it back over both of them.

"You've caught me too, you know, golden Maia. Look, here's something nice. I brought it specially for you."

Fumbling a moment, he held out to her a lump of something brown and glistening, about half as big as his fist. At the smell, at once sweet and nutty-sharp, she began to salivate once more.

"Go on; try it! You'll like it. Look!" He bit off a piece and lay nibbling, crackling the brittle stuff between his teeth.

Maia copied him. The taste was delicious, filling her mouth and throat, suffusing her with the luxury of its sweetness. With closed eyes she bit, chewed, swallowed and bit again, her smarting eye quite forgotten.

"M'mm! Oh, it's gorgeous, Tharrin! What is it?"

"Nut thrilsa. Nuts baked in honey and butter."

"But these aren't ordinary nuts. Where do they come from? Oh, do give me some more!"

"No, these are serrardoes. The black traders bring them to Ikat from heaven knows where—far away to the south. Want some more?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"Come and get it, then!" Very deliberately, and holding her gaze, he put a piece lightly between his front teeth, then took each of her hands in one of his own, fingers interlocked, and held them back against the net.

Slowly, realizing what he meant and why he had done it, Maia raised her head and placed her mouth against his. His arms came gently round her shoulders, clasping her to him, and as she drew the sweetmeat into her mouth his tongue followed it, licking and caressing. She offered no resistance, only breathing hard and trembling.

Releasing her, he smiled into her eyes. "Was that nice, too?"

"I don't—I don't know!"

"And this?" He slid his hand beneath her torn dress, fondling one breast.

"Oh, you shouldn’t; don't!" But her hands made no move to pluck his away.

Pressing himself against her from head to foot, lithe and strong, he once more took her hand and drew it downward between his legs.

And now indeed she cried out in earnest, suddenly realizing what before she had only half understood.

Feeling, with a kind of panic, what he had meant her to feel, she thought—like a young soldier for the first time face to face with the enemy—"This isn't a game any more—this is what really happens—and it's happening to me." For long moments she lay tense in his arms; yet she did not struggle.

Suddenly her body felt full and smooth and sufficient— like a new boat pushed down into the water. It was as though she were standing back, regarding it with satisfaction. It was sound: it floated. Her body, her beautiful body, which could swim miles in the lake—her body would take care of everything. She had only to allow it to do what it had been created for. Sighing, she pressed herself against Tharrin and waited, shuddering as he caressed her.

The moment he entered her, Maia was filled from head to foot with a complete, assenting knowledge that this was what she had been born for. All her previous, childish life seemed to fall away beneath her like broken fragments of shell from the kernel of a cracked nut. Tharrin's weight upon her, Tharrin's thrusting, his arms about her, were like the opening of a pair of great, bronze doors to disclose some awesome and marvelous treasure within. Only, she herself was at one and the same time the doors, the fortress and the treasure. Catching her breath, moaning, struggling not against but with him, as though they had both been hauling on a sail, she clutched him about, crying incoherently, "Oh, don't—don't—"

At this, he held back for a moment.

"Don't what, my darling?"

"Don't stop! Oh, Cran and Airtha, don't stop!"

Laughing with delight, he took her once more in a close embrace and entirely at her word.

When she came to herself she was lying in the net and he was smiling down at her.

"I've landed my fish! It is a beauty! Don't you agree?"

She answered nothing; only panting up at him, a child caught at the end of some hide-and-seek game.

"Are you all right, pretty Maia?"

She nodded. The unshed tears in her blue eyes made them seem even bigger.

"Like some more thrilsa?" He put a piece to her lips: she bit into it with relish.

"You like that?"

"Oh, it's simply lovely! I've never had it before!"

He roared with laughter. "What are you talking about— thrilsa?"

Realizing what she had said, Maia laughed too.

"Tharrin, did you mean to come and do this when you told me to mend the net?"

"No, not just like that, fish: but I've wanted to do it for a long time. You didn't know?"

"Well—p'raps I did, really. Leastways, I c'n see it now."

"Yes, you can see it now. There!"

She bit her lip, looking away.

"Never seen a man's zard before, pretty girl? Come on, you're a woman now!"

"It's soft, and—and smaller. Oh, Tharrin, I've just remembered—" and since it never occurred to Maia to think of the words of a song separately from their tune, she sang " 'Seek, daughter, that horn of plenty with which men butt'—that's what that means, then?"

"Yes, of course. If you didn't know, where did you learn that song?"

"I was with mother one day in Meerzat. It was that hot in the market and I got a headache. She told me to wait for her with the tavern-keeper's wife at "The Safe Moorings'—you know, Frarnli, the big woman with the cast in her eye."

"I know."

"Frarnli let me lie down on her bed. There was men drinking and singing in the next room: I just thought it was a pretty song. I remembered the tune and some of the words and what I couldn't remember later I made up: but I never knew what it meant. When mother heard me singin' it she got angry and said I wasn't to sing it n' more."

"I'm not surprised."

"So I used to sing it out on the waterfall, by myself. Oh, Tharrin, Tharrin! Look! Blood! What's happened?"

"Out of your tairth? That's nothing. That's only the first time. Just wash it off in the lake, that's all."

"My—what did you say?—tairth?"

Gently, he touched her. "That's your tairth. And you've been basted—you know that word, don't you?"

"Oh, yes; I've heard the drovers saying that. 'Get that damned cow through the basting gate'—you know how they talk."

"Yes, I know, but I don't like to use it for swearing. Love-words shouldn't be used like that, fish."

"I'm your fish now. What sort of fish am I?"

He paused, considering. "A carp. Yes, round and golden. I must say, you're a fine girl for your age, Maia. You're really lovely—do you know that? I mean, anyone, anywhere, would think you were lovely—in Ikat or Thettit— or Bekla, come to that: though I've never been to Bekla. You're just about the prettiest girl I've ever seen in my life. Lespa can't be more beautiful than you are."

She made no reply, lying easy in the delicious warmth of the sun, feeling the cords and knots of the net all about her. She felt content.

After a time he said, "Come on, let's take the boat out now. After all, we'd better have a few fish to show when Morca gets back, don't you think?"

He got to his feet, stretched out a hand and pulled her up.

"Maia?"

"M'm-h'm?"

"Take care of our secrets, darling. I've heard you talk in your sleep before now."

This was typical of Tharrin. How do you take care not to talk in your sleep?