were clenched on the arms of it.
“The pit——”
He bowed his head.
“His Liar still endures the vexations, the insecurities, the trials of a moving Now.”
He caught her just in time, lowered her gently to the chair and began to slap her hands. He muttered to himself again.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!”
The Prince found his voice.
“Can I go now?”
But the Head Man paid no attention to him. The Prince listened in silence as the Head Man gave orders to soldiers at the door, watched without comment though perhaps a little envy as Pretty Flower’s beauty was put back on her face by her women. A tiny old woman brought in a bowl of drink and placed it on a pedestal by the chair. Then the three of them waited and the sun lowered towards evening.
Pretty Flower cleared her throat.
“What will you do?”
“Persuade him. Let me administer such consolation to you as I can; for you must be strong. You think yourself exceptional. And of course you are—exceptionally beautiful for one thing. But these dark desires—” he glanced for a moment at the Prince, then away—“you are not alone in them. In all of us there is a deep, unspoken, a morbid desire to make love with a, a—you understand what I mean. Not related to you by blood. An outlander with his own fantasies. Don’t you see what these fantasies are? They are a desperate attempt to get rid of his own corrupt desires, to act them out in imagination; because—by the laws of nature—they cannot be externalized. Do you suppose, my dear, there are real places where people marry across the natural borders of consanguinity? Besides, where would they live, the puppets in these fantastic lies? Suppose for a moment the sky to be so big it stretched out to cover these lands! Well—think of the weight!”
“Yes. Madness.”
“You admit the truth to yourself at last. A madman whose lies have—for all of us—stirred up the central, unspeakable plenum; a madman who is a peril to us all unless he agrees to serve the God.”
He paused, turned away to look at the flooded valley. An empty boat came twisting and turning down the central current.
“You see? We cannot afford to wait for a cure. If he cannot be persuaded—we will try, of course—then we must use force.”
There was silence for a time. Pretty Flower began to cry again. She did not interrupt the silence with her crying. The water swam down her cheeks and the malachite came with it, like spill from a mine. The river continued to rise. The Prince sat, tinkling every now and then.
Presently Pretty Flower stopped crying.
“I must look a mess.”
“No, no, my dear. A little—disarranged, perhaps. Becomingly.”
She signalled for her women.
“You know, Head Man? It shows how far I have been corrupted. I very nearly don’t care. Not quite, of course but very nearly.”
He looked down at her, frowning, puzzled.
“About the flood?”
“Oh that —no. My face, I mean.”
The women went away again. Pretty Flower settled herself firmly.
“I’m ready now.”
The Head Man spoke loudly.
“Have him brought here.”
The Prince scrambled to his feet.
“Well—I think—I’ll go and have a drink——”
The words came hissing from the chair.
“Stay where you are, you runt!”
The Prince sat down again.
There were noises beyond the terrace and among them the sound of a well-known voice talking, voluble as ever but at a higher pitch. Two tall black soldiers wearing nothing but loincloths dragged the Liar forward between them. The soldiers brought him round and held him before Pretty Flower. He stopped talking and looked at her. She looked back at him with eyes like stones and would have seemed secure as a dweller in the house of life, if it had not been for the way her dress shivered over her breast. The Liar caught sight of the Prince, squatting beyond her by the wall. He convulsed between the soldiers and yelled at the top of his voice.
“ You —traitor!”
“I
“The pit——”
He bowed his head.
“His Liar still endures the vexations, the insecurities, the trials of a moving Now.”
He caught her just in time, lowered her gently to the chair and began to slap her hands. He muttered to himself again.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!”
The Prince found his voice.
“Can I go now?”
But the Head Man paid no attention to him. The Prince listened in silence as the Head Man gave orders to soldiers at the door, watched without comment though perhaps a little envy as Pretty Flower’s beauty was put back on her face by her women. A tiny old woman brought in a bowl of drink and placed it on a pedestal by the chair. Then the three of them waited and the sun lowered towards evening.
Pretty Flower cleared her throat.
“What will you do?”
“Persuade him. Let me administer such consolation to you as I can; for you must be strong. You think yourself exceptional. And of course you are—exceptionally beautiful for one thing. But these dark desires—” he glanced for a moment at the Prince, then away—“you are not alone in them. In all of us there is a deep, unspoken, a morbid desire to make love with a, a—you understand what I mean. Not related to you by blood. An outlander with his own fantasies. Don’t you see what these fantasies are? They are a desperate attempt to get rid of his own corrupt desires, to act them out in imagination; because—by the laws of nature—they cannot be externalized. Do you suppose, my dear, there are real places where people marry across the natural borders of consanguinity? Besides, where would they live, the puppets in these fantastic lies? Suppose for a moment the sky to be so big it stretched out to cover these lands! Well—think of the weight!”
“Yes. Madness.”
“You admit the truth to yourself at last. A madman whose lies have—for all of us—stirred up the central, unspeakable plenum; a madman who is a peril to us all unless he agrees to serve the God.”
He paused, turned away to look at the flooded valley. An empty boat came twisting and turning down the central current.
“You see? We cannot afford to wait for a cure. If he cannot be persuaded—we will try, of course—then we must use force.”
There was silence for a time. Pretty Flower began to cry again. She did not interrupt the silence with her crying. The water swam down her cheeks and the malachite came with it, like spill from a mine. The river continued to rise. The Prince sat, tinkling every now and then.
Presently Pretty Flower stopped crying.
“I must look a mess.”
“No, no, my dear. A little—disarranged, perhaps. Becomingly.”
She signalled for her women.
“You know, Head Man? It shows how far I have been corrupted. I very nearly don’t care. Not quite, of course but very nearly.”
He looked down at her, frowning, puzzled.
“About the flood?”
“Oh that —no. My face, I mean.”
The women went away again. Pretty Flower settled herself firmly.
“I’m ready now.”
The Head Man spoke loudly.
“Have him brought here.”
The Prince scrambled to his feet.
“Well—I think—I’ll go and have a drink——”
The words came hissing from the chair.
“Stay where you are, you runt!”
The Prince sat down again.
There were noises beyond the terrace and among them the sound of a well-known voice talking, voluble as ever but at a higher pitch. Two tall black soldiers wearing nothing but loincloths dragged the Liar forward between them. The soldiers brought him round and held him before Pretty Flower. He stopped talking and looked at her. She looked back at him with eyes like stones and would have seemed secure as a dweller in the house of life, if it had not been for the way her dress shivered over her breast. The Liar caught sight of the Prince, squatting beyond her by the wall. He convulsed between the soldiers and yelled at the top of his voice.
“ You —traitor!”
“I
Similar Books
