children themselves. The fisher-folk – handsome, strong young men, fine old patriarchs and their grave dames – face the resplendent soldiers in their red cloaks, each a warrior to conquer a thousand hearts. The Man's unhealed wounds bleed red upon the stones, the Woman is robed like a goddess; light streams from Lord Shardik's body upon the kneeling children, and the little girl smiles as though in her sleep, nestling between the strong, protecting limbs. The fire burns lambent, the regular wavelets lap white as wool upon the strand. Perhaps – who can tell? – this is indeed the truth, sprung like an oak from an acorn long vanished into the earth: from the ragged, muttering peasants (one or two already edging away to the evening chores), the half-comprehending soldiers obeying orders, their clothes and armour, conscientiously mended and burnished, showing every sign of a hard campaign and a forced march; from Shouter, trying for dear life to squeeze out a few tears; from Kelderek's uncontrollable trembling, Melathys' weary, dark-ringed eyes and homespun robe, from the grubby village flotsam bobbing in the shallows and the sorry huddle on the raft. These things were not remarked or felt at the time and now they have long disappeared, mere grains succeeded by the massive trunk above and the huge spread of roots below. And lost too – only to be guessed at now – are the words which Melathys spoke.
She spoke in Ortelgan, a tongue largely unknown to the Yeldashay, though understood well enough by the Tissarn villagers. First she uttered the traditional invocation of Quiso to Lord Shardik, followed by a sequence of prayers whose archaic and beautiful periods fell from her lips without hesitation. Then, turning to face her listeners and changing her voice to an even tone of narration, she spoke of the finding of Shardik on Ortelga and the saving of his life by the priestesses of Quiso; of his coming alive from the Streel; of his ordained suffering, and of the sacred death by which he had saved the heir of Sarkid and the enslaved children from the power of evil. Kelderek, listening, marvelled, less at her self-possession than at the authority and humility present together in her voice and bearing. It was as though the girl whom he knew had relinquished herself to become a vessel brimmed with words old, smooth and universal as stones; and by these to allow mankind's grief and pity for death, the common lot of all creatures, to flow not from but through her. Out of her mouth the dead, it seemed, spoke to the unborn, as sand pours grain by grain through the waist of an hour-glass. The sand was run at last and the girl stood motionless, head bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped at her waist.
The silence was broken by the voice of the young flag-officer beginning, like a precentor, the beautiful Yeldashay lament sometimes called 'The Grief of Deparioth', but more widely known, perhaps, as 'The Tears of Sarkid'. This, which tells of the sacred birth and the youth of U-Deparioth, liberator of Yelda and founder of the House of Sarkid, is sung to this day, though perhaps it has altered through the centuries; just as, they say, the shapes of the constellations undergo change, no man living long enough to perceive it. The soldiers took up the lament, their solemn chanting growing louder and echoing from the Deelguy shore. Among the standing corn- sheaves she lay down, In bitter grief the friendless girl lay down, Wounded, alone, the curse of the Street upon her, She bore the hero Deparioth, when Yelda lay in chains.
The soldier beside Kelderek was singing with the rest, the words, coming to him unthinkingly, expressing for him his sense of forming a part of things greater than himself, his people, his homeland and those memories, his and no other man's, that made up his little share of human life. He knew neither his father nor his mother, Among strangers he laboured as a slave, An exile, in a country not his own, The Lord Deparioth, God's appointed sword.
The flag-officer stepped forward, holding the Corn-Sheaves banner before him, and was met from the opposite line by a villager carrying a fishing-net in his arms. Together they turned river-ward and walked towards Melathys, passed her on either side, waded into the shallows and placed their burdens on the raft. Radu, following them, laid his hand for a moment first on Shardik's grey claws and then on Shara's forehead. Returning up the shore, he drew a brand from the fire and stood waiting, holding it upright before him. If I could meet thee, thou mighty Lord Deparioth, If I could meet thee and clasp thy hand in mine, I'd tell thee thy deeds are not forgotten in Yelda, That the tears of Sarkid fall to honour thee still.
The chanting sank and died away. As it did so, Melathys raised her head with a long, ululating cry that recalled instandy to Kelderek the city of Bekla lying silent in sacred darkness, the weight of his heavy robes and the sudden, upward leap of flame into the night sky. 'Shardik! Lord Shardik's fire!' 'Lord Shardik's fire!' responded the villagers.
Radu approached slowly across the stones and held out to Kelderek the burning brand.
For a few moments Kelderek, confused by the vividness of his memories, stood hesitant, unable to grasp what it was that he was being asked to do. Then, as his mind cleared, he started and took a step backwards, one hand raised as though in refusal. Radu dropped upon one knee, still offering the fire.
' 'Seems they think you're the one that's got to do it, sir,' whispered the soldier. 'Reckon you're up to it?'
In the silence Kelderek could hear only the crackling of the flame and beyond, the lapping of the water. Fixing his eyes on the raft, he stepped forward, took the brand from Radu and so came down the shore to where Melathys still stood waiting, with bowed head.
Now he was standing alone in the water, none between him and the dead child, closer to Shardik than at any time since the day when he had come alive from the Streel. The bodies lay before him, the bear's, massive as a mill-wheel seen against the wall of a mill, marked by the ropes with which it had been dragged into place and by the arrow's gash in the starved, pinched mask.
He wondered whether they expected him to speak or to pray: then saw that he had no time, for the brand had burned low and must be used at once.
'Senandril, Lord Shardik!' he cried. 'Accept our lives, Lord Shardik Die-for-the-Children!'
Up to his waist in the water, steadying himself against the edge of the raft with his wounded left hand, he thrust the brand into the pile of twigs and shavings before him. It caught immediately, burning up in the opaque, yellow flames of kindling. Withdrawing the brand, he lit again and yet again among the logs and sticks. Finally, as the butt began to crumble and to scorch his fingers, he tossed it, in a shower of sparks, to the top of the pyre. It lodged, burning, a few feet above the spot where Shara lay.
The raft was pivoting slowly away from him. He let go of it clumsily, wincing to feel the pain shoot up his arm as he pushed himself upright. The soldiers behind him had released the mooring-ropes, which now trailed past him on either side, rippling but invisible in the lurid shallows. For now the whole shoreward side of the pyre was burning, blazing in a wall of hot, translucent flames, green, red and black-flecked orange. The fire ran back into the heart of the pyre, disclosing its depth as sunlight shows the distance between forest trees; and as it burned higher, up into the green branches and flowers where Shardik lay, a thick, white smoke began to fume and drift to the shore, almost blinding Kelderek and those behind him.
He choked, and gasped for breath. His eyes smarted, pouring water, but still he stood where he was. 'Let it be so,' he thought. 'This is best, for I could not bear to see the bodies burn.' Then, even as he felt himself about to faint in the smother, the heavy raft began to turn more swiftly, so that the bodies and the whole of the side along which he had lit the fire faced upstream. Four or five of the young fishermen had fastened the upstream mooring- rope to a canoe and were drawing the raft out towards the centre of the river.
As it began to gather way, a storm of flames poured backward through the pyre. The sound of crackling changed to a hot, windy roaring and sparks and cinders raced upward, wavering and dodging like escaping birds. Logs began to shift and fall, and here and there a burning fragment dropped hissing into the water. Presently, cleaving through the noise of dissolution like a ploughshare through heavy soil, there rose once again the sound of singing. The villagers upon the shore were encouraging and urging on the young men at the paddles, who were labouring now as they drew further out and began to be carried downstream with the current-borne raft. At dawn we come to the shore and loose our boats. If luck is with us none will be hungry tonight. Who has his net and who has skill with a spear? Poor men must live by any means they can.
The raft was half a bowshot from land now and as far downstream from where Kelderek stood, but still the paddlers dug rhythmically into the water and the plume of smoke blew shoreward as they toiled to pull it further out. Buying wisdom dear is the lot of men, And learning to make the most of what they've got. What I call luck's a fire and a bellyful, A girl for your bed and children to learn your craft.
They clapped and stamped as they sang, in the rhythm of the paddles, and yet it was a grave and not unfitting sound; of a minor cadence, homely and shrewd, the single music of folk whose solemnity is but their wit turned inside out to serve the occasion and mood of the day. The raft was a long way out now and far downstream, so far that the distant paddles could be seen striking behind the beat of the song. The young men had turned the bow half-upstream into the current, so that the raft was below them and the side on which the bodies had lain was
