Ivan Yefremov: The Land of Foam

The young man contentedly broke a cake and dipped the white, broken edge into an earthen pot of honey. As he ate he kept his eyes fixed on his grandfather who sat silently watching his grandson with a fond look. The eyes of both, the old man and the youth, were alike and unusual; they gleamed golden like the concentrated light of a sun-ray. There was a popular belief that people with such eyes were descended from the earthly lovers of the “Son of the Heights,” Hyperion, the sun god.

“I thought about you after you’d gone today, Grandad,” said the youth. “Why is it that other bards live in good houses and eat their fill although they know nothing but their songs? But you, Grandad, who know so much, who make such wonderful songs, have to toil on the sea. The boat’s too heavy for you now and I’m your only helper. We haven’t got a single slave.”

The old man smiled and placed his gnarled hand on Pandion’s curly head.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow. Only one thing will I say tonight: many different songs may be composed about the gods and about people. If you are honest with yourself, if your eyes are open, your songs will not sound pleasant to the lordly owners of the land and the warrior chiefs. And you will have neither rich gifts, nor slaves, nor fame, you will not be known in the great houses and you will not gain a livelihood by your songs… Time for bed,” the old man broke off. “Look, the Chariot of the Night (Chariot of the Night — the Great Bear constellation. Cf. Charles’s Wain. — Tr.) is already turning to the other side of the heavens. Its black horses travel fast and a man who wants to be strong must rest. Come on.” And the old man moved off towards the narrow doorway of his miserable hut.

The old man awakened Pandion early next morning. The cold autumn was drawing near; the sky was overcast with heavy clouds, a cutting wind rustled in the dry reeds and in the few remaining leaves of the plane-tree. Under his grandfather’s stern and exacting guidance Pandion went through his gymnastic exercises. Thousands and thousands of times, from early boyhood, he had repeated them every day at sunrise and sunset, but today grandad selected the most difficult exercises and increased their number.

Pandion hurled a heavy javelin, threw stones and jumped over obstacles with a sack of sand on his shoulders. At last grandad fastened a heavy piece of walnut wood to his left hand, placed a gnarled wooden club in his right and tied a piece of a broken stone vase to his head. Restraining his laughter for fear of wasting his breath, Pandion awaited a sign from his grandfather and then set out at a run northwards, where the path from the littoral ran round a steep, stony slope. He raced along the path like lightning, scrambled up to the first ledge of a cliff, turned and came down even faster. The old man met his grandson at the hut, relieved him of his burden and then pressed his cheek to the lad’s face to determine the degree of tiredness from the rate of his breathing.

After a few seconds the youth said:

“I could run there and back many times before I would ask for a rest.”

“Yes, I think you could,” answered the old man slowly, and proudly straightened his back. “You’re fit to be a warrior, capable of fighting tirelessly in battle and carrying heavy bronze accoutrements. My son, your father, gave you health and strength, I have developed them in you and made you bold and enduring.” The old man cast a glance over the youth’s figure, allowing his eyes to rest on his broad, powerful chest and on the mighty muscles that rippled under a skin without a single blemish. “I’m the only relative you have,” he continued, “and I’m old and weak; we’ve neither wealth nor servants and our entire phralry ( Phratry — a union of several clans Tribes grew out of several, phratries when the gentile social system still predominated. )consists of three villages on a stony seashore… The world is great and there are many dangers besetting a lonely man. The greatest of them is the loss of liberty, the possibility of being taken captive and sent to slavery. This is why I have devoted so much time and effort to making a warrior of you, a man of courage who is competent in all matters of war. Now you are free to serve your people. Come, let us make sacrifice to Hyperion, our patron, in honour of your attaining man’s estate.”

Grandfather and grandson made their way along the patches of sedge grass and reeds towards a narrow spit of land that reached far out into the sea like a long wall.

Two thick oaks with wide spreading branches grew at the end of the spit. Between them stood an altar built of rude limestone blocks behind which was a blackened wooden post, crudely carved in the shape of a human figure. This was an ancient temple dedicated to the local deity, the River Achelous, which joined the sea there.

The mouth of the river was hidden in the green reeds and bushes swarming with migratory birds from the north.

Before them stretched the mist-covered sea. Waves raced with a crash against the point of a spit resembling the neck of some gigantic animal holding its head under water.

The solemn roar of the waves, the shrill cries of the birds, the whistling of the wind in the reeds and the rustling foliage of the oaks — all these sounds merged into an uneasy, rumbling melody.

The old man lit a fire on the rude altar and threw a piece of meat and a cake into the flames. When the sacrifice had been made, the old man led Pandion to a big stone at the foot of a steep mossy cliff and bade him push the stone aside. The youth did so with ease and then, following his grandfather’s instructions, thrust his hand into a deep crevice between two strata of limestone. There was a rattle of metal and Pandion drew out a bronze sword, a helmet and a wide belt of square copper plates serving as armour for the lower part of the body — all of them dulled with patches of verdigris.

“These are the arms of your father, who died young,” said the grandfather in a low voice. “A shield and bow you must acquire yourself.”

The youth bent excitedly over the accoutrements and began carefully cleaning off the verdigris.

The old man sat down on the stone, leaned his back against the cliff and fell to watching his grandson and trying to hide his sorrow from him.

Pandion left his armour and in a burst of ecstasy threw himself on the old man and embraced him. The old man placed an arm round the youth, feeling the knots of his mighty muscles. It seemed to the grandfather that his long-dead son was reborn in this youthful body, designed to overcome obstacles.

The old man turned the youth’s face towards himself and stared long into the frank, golden eyes.

“Now you have to decide, Pandion: will you go at once to the chief of our phratry to serve him as a warrior, or will you remain Agenor’s apprentice?”

“I shall remain with Agenor,” answered Pandion without giving the matter a second thought. “If I go now to the chief in the village I shall have to stay there to live and eat in the company of the men and you will be left here alone. I don’t want to be parted from you and shall stay and help you.”

“No, Pandion, we must part company,” said the old man, firmly but with an effort.

The youth jumped back in astonishment but the old man’s hand held him.

“I have fulfilled the promise I made my son, your father, Pandion,” continued the old man. “Now you must, make your own way in life. You must start on your life’s road free, not burdened by the care of a helpless old man. I am leaving our Oeniadae for fertile Elis, where my daughters live with their husbands. When you become a famous sculptor you will be able to find me…”