Read Online The Scorpion God: Three Short Novels by William Golding - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Golding
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string still coiled in his hand. All the time, as his body did these impossible things, the Liar talked and talked out of his worried face. Even when he leapt from the parapet he talked. He dived neatly into the flood water and perhaps he talked under there as well; only when he surfaced, labouring great armfuls of water out of the way, there was too much noise on the terrace for anyone to know whether he talked or not. Arrows were digging into the water round him, then floating away, feathers upward.
The Head Man was changing. He was holding his midriff and looking at once far away and inside himself. He lowered himself on one knee. There was a collapsed look about his face. It was smaller, older.
The Prince had changed too. He ignored the dead and dying. His smile was bright, as he spoke to Pretty Flower, though she paid him no attention.
“Then my eyes wouldn’t matter, and I wouldn’t have to be a God, would I?”
The Head Man spoke with his cheek against the floor.
“Bleeding inside. He stings like a scorpion.”
Far away and beyond reach of anything but random shot, the Liar had climbed out of the water to the top of a wall that, like a narrow path, led onward beneath the heads of palms to the central current of the flood. He turned back to the terrace, arms gesticulating, miming silently, but staunchlessly, the mechanics, the necessity of survival. The bowmen stood by the parapet, their quivers empty. They were turning to Pretty Flower for orders; but she still stared after the Liar, hands up, mouth open.
The Head Man made his last statement, clearly, professionally.
“He has a death wish.”
The Prince’s grin was so wide it was ridiculous.
“Can I have a drink now?”
She answered him absently.
“Presently, dear child.”
She moved forward towards the parapet.
“A death wish. All the same——”
The bowmen waited, looking at her. She was changing too. She was becoming rounder, plumper, even. The gloss included her eyes, her hair. Those planes that had been her cheeks were now curved. As if some perfume concealed in her body was taking aromatic and excited charge, she shone, she sparkled. There was colour beneath the curved cheeks, where the beginnings of a smile revealed their dimples. Her arms were up, their henna’d palms outward, gesture reserved for revelation.
“All the same—we’d better go and talk to Him.”
Clonk Clonk
Song before speech
Verse before prose
Flute before blowpipe
Lyre before bow
I
Palm listened to the Bee Women, her smile like applause so that they were happy as she intended. There was no disease, and yes, the bees were bringing back honey from the plain as well as from the forest. You could taste the plain in the honey, a spice, an aroma. Yes. The bees were doing well. When she had used her smile as much as was necessary she turned away to take it back the short distance to the space between the river and the straw huts, the lean-tos and shelters in the tumbled rocks. It was the space the children played in, hot and dusty now, but not as hot as it would be, when the sun was at height. The children felt the heat, she saw that at once; for two small boys were fighting in more than play and only fell apart when they saw her and her smile. Another boy—smaller this one and not much more than a baby—came toddling with an egg in either hand and held them up.
“Clever,” she said, “Clever!”
She tousled his hair and walked on. It was time the children went for their midday sleep. More of them were making a fuss, by the bank of the river, three boys and two girls. The girls were marching along by the boys in step. They raised sticks together in their right hands. They chanted.
“Rah! Rah! Rah!”
One of the boys was red and crying, already. The other two had their heads bent down and were making marks in the dust. The two girls turned, lifted their sticks, saw her and took them down again, giggling.
The Head Man was changing. He was holding his midriff and looking at once far away and inside himself. He lowered himself on one knee. There was a collapsed look about his face. It was smaller, older.
The Prince had changed too. He ignored the dead and dying. His smile was bright, as he spoke to Pretty Flower, though she paid him no attention.
“Then my eyes wouldn’t matter, and I wouldn’t have to be a God, would I?”
The Head Man spoke with his cheek against the floor.
“Bleeding inside. He stings like a scorpion.”
Far away and beyond reach of anything but random shot, the Liar had climbed out of the water to the top of a wall that, like a narrow path, led onward beneath the heads of palms to the central current of the flood. He turned back to the terrace, arms gesticulating, miming silently, but staunchlessly, the mechanics, the necessity of survival. The bowmen stood by the parapet, their quivers empty. They were turning to Pretty Flower for orders; but she still stared after the Liar, hands up, mouth open.
The Head Man made his last statement, clearly, professionally.
“He has a death wish.”
The Prince’s grin was so wide it was ridiculous.
“Can I have a drink now?”
She answered him absently.
“Presently, dear child.”
She moved forward towards the parapet.
“A death wish. All the same——”
The bowmen waited, looking at her. She was changing too. She was becoming rounder, plumper, even. The gloss included her eyes, her hair. Those planes that had been her cheeks were now curved. As if some perfume concealed in her body was taking aromatic and excited charge, she shone, she sparkled. There was colour beneath the curved cheeks, where the beginnings of a smile revealed their dimples. Her arms were up, their henna’d palms outward, gesture reserved for revelation.
“All the same—we’d better go and talk to Him.”
Clonk Clonk
Song before speech
Verse before prose
Flute before blowpipe
Lyre before bow
I
Palm listened to the Bee Women, her smile like applause so that they were happy as she intended. There was no disease, and yes, the bees were bringing back honey from the plain as well as from the forest. You could taste the plain in the honey, a spice, an aroma. Yes. The bees were doing well. When she had used her smile as much as was necessary she turned away to take it back the short distance to the space between the river and the straw huts, the lean-tos and shelters in the tumbled rocks. It was the space the children played in, hot and dusty now, but not as hot as it would be, when the sun was at height. The children felt the heat, she saw that at once; for two small boys were fighting in more than play and only fell apart when they saw her and her smile. Another boy—smaller this one and not much more than a baby—came toddling with an egg in either hand and held them up.
“Clever,” she said, “Clever!”
She tousled his hair and walked on. It was time the children went for their midday sleep. More of them were making a fuss, by the bank of the river, three boys and two girls. The girls were marching along by the boys in step. They raised sticks together in their right hands. They chanted.
“Rah! Rah! Rah!”
One of the boys was red and crying, already. The other two had their heads bent down and were making marks in the dust. The two girls turned, lifted their sticks, saw her and took them down again, giggling.
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