Read Online White As Snow (Fairy Tale) by Tanith Lee - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tanith Lee
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“These are pagan things, and you’ve no business to know them, let alone tell her .”
Kaya shrugged. She had a sly face and foxy hair.
“You,” she retorted, “gave her the name.”
“Only in fun,” whined the nurse, uneasily.
The child looked from one to the other. It was her second maid, Julah, who primly said, “ Coira is the pet name of the corn goddess’s daughter, the one the god stole.”
The nurse put down the comb, turned and slapped Julah across the face. Julah screamed. Kaya stood grinning. “The Princess Candacis was born in harvest month. She belongs to the Virgin, the holy Virgo,” shouted the nurse.
But Coira thought, If I am the goddess’s daughter, my mother is the goddess. She did not think this in words, she thought it in a formless way, only the more marvelous since untrammeled by language.
Draco led the procession down the terraces.
In seven years, he had grown affluent, and thickened slightly, like a gourd. There had been minor skirmishes, a couple of raids
into other territories. These had kept him occupied and assured of his manhood and power, but had not refined him at all. His brain had thickened too, becoming more hard, less flexible, and there had been little pliancy to begin with.
He walked down the hill. That was the tradition. All the kings and men of war who had once come to ask things of the Oracle, had walked, leaving their chariots, later their horses, sometimes even their attendants behind.
But two priests of the Christ walked directly after the king, and then there were boys from St. Belor with censers. The flavor of the incense mingled with the scent of ripening oranges; today, ironically, the Oracle’s sulfur was scarcely to be detected.
After the priests and the church-boys came the king’s noblemen and his captains, not clad in mail but in their summer linens and silks. The silken women walked behind, some with their hair unbound and crowned with flowers.
The palace had let them out like creatures from a cave. Its stone and wood walls were turned sidelong to the morning sun, as they grew from the elder masonry, and from between the stems of faded russet pillars that had been young when other gods moved over the earth and Christ Himself was not yet born.
The way to the Oracle led by the ruined temple. The space was full only of sunlit age and lizards. Few glanced. By night trysts were kept there, and cats fought under the moon. And yet, too, occasionally after sunset, no one would go there, the temple was left alone. Even the lizards ran away … .
The king had reached the terrace of the Oracle.
Draco gazed earnestly at the great stone, and the small dark hole lying half under it. It was no bigger than his fist, the hole, and this morning the smoke was very faint. But that, given the smoke’s foul odor, was to the good.
From her hut on the terrace side, the elderly woman had come out. She wore a fine white garment, one of which was given her new each month. Her veiled head was like the head of a tortoise. She was the kind of crone the king would have pushed from his
path without thinking, but this one he superstitiously revered, since she served the smoke.
Now a priest cried, “Holy Marusa of the corn, mild Lady who smiles upon the fields and leads the bees to their work among the flowers, we come to thank you for your kindness and your intercessions.”
Only crickets answered. Birds rose singing, uninvolved.
Then the crone spoke, as if the priest had not.
“Who comes here, to question the Lady?”
And her voice, unlike that of the priest’s, called from another world, and the crickets and the birds fell silent.
“I am King Draco.” He had learned his lesson but enunciated as he did in battle—he was too loud.
One of his gentlemen handed the king a platter and flask. Draco cast grain about the timeless stone, poured wine on its old purple veins. The smoke stirred, just a little, sleepily.
The crone raised sticklike hands against the
Kaya shrugged. She had a sly face and foxy hair.
“You,” she retorted, “gave her the name.”
“Only in fun,” whined the nurse, uneasily.
The child looked from one to the other. It was her second maid, Julah, who primly said, “ Coira is the pet name of the corn goddess’s daughter, the one the god stole.”
The nurse put down the comb, turned and slapped Julah across the face. Julah screamed. Kaya stood grinning. “The Princess Candacis was born in harvest month. She belongs to the Virgin, the holy Virgo,” shouted the nurse.
But Coira thought, If I am the goddess’s daughter, my mother is the goddess. She did not think this in words, she thought it in a formless way, only the more marvelous since untrammeled by language.
Draco led the procession down the terraces.
In seven years, he had grown affluent, and thickened slightly, like a gourd. There had been minor skirmishes, a couple of raids
into other territories. These had kept him occupied and assured of his manhood and power, but had not refined him at all. His brain had thickened too, becoming more hard, less flexible, and there had been little pliancy to begin with.
He walked down the hill. That was the tradition. All the kings and men of war who had once come to ask things of the Oracle, had walked, leaving their chariots, later their horses, sometimes even their attendants behind.
But two priests of the Christ walked directly after the king, and then there were boys from St. Belor with censers. The flavor of the incense mingled with the scent of ripening oranges; today, ironically, the Oracle’s sulfur was scarcely to be detected.
After the priests and the church-boys came the king’s noblemen and his captains, not clad in mail but in their summer linens and silks. The silken women walked behind, some with their hair unbound and crowned with flowers.
The palace had let them out like creatures from a cave. Its stone and wood walls were turned sidelong to the morning sun, as they grew from the elder masonry, and from between the stems of faded russet pillars that had been young when other gods moved over the earth and Christ Himself was not yet born.
The way to the Oracle led by the ruined temple. The space was full only of sunlit age and lizards. Few glanced. By night trysts were kept there, and cats fought under the moon. And yet, too, occasionally after sunset, no one would go there, the temple was left alone. Even the lizards ran away … .
The king had reached the terrace of the Oracle.
Draco gazed earnestly at the great stone, and the small dark hole lying half under it. It was no bigger than his fist, the hole, and this morning the smoke was very faint. But that, given the smoke’s foul odor, was to the good.
From her hut on the terrace side, the elderly woman had come out. She wore a fine white garment, one of which was given her new each month. Her veiled head was like the head of a tortoise. She was the kind of crone the king would have pushed from his
path without thinking, but this one he superstitiously revered, since she served the smoke.
Now a priest cried, “Holy Marusa of the corn, mild Lady who smiles upon the fields and leads the bees to their work among the flowers, we come to thank you for your kindness and your intercessions.”
Only crickets answered. Birds rose singing, uninvolved.
Then the crone spoke, as if the priest had not.
“Who comes here, to question the Lady?”
And her voice, unlike that of the priest’s, called from another world, and the crickets and the birds fell silent.
“I am King Draco.” He had learned his lesson but enunciated as he did in battle—he was too loud.
One of his gentlemen handed the king a platter and flask. Draco cast grain about the timeless stone, poured wine on its old purple veins. The smoke stirred, just a little, sleepily.
The crone raised sticklike hands against the
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