Charles Newman - In Partial Disgrace

“That will do. No more fish, if you please,” Father interrupted, knowing well that when Gubik entered a lyric phase, he tended to lose the thread. Gubik was grateful also for this intervention — in fact, it seemed to energize him and his voce velata .

“On the golden dog they laid their poems, lies, and hopes, but he did not complain; that is why they worshiped him. Here was a god. . As for the many-headed dog, he barked throughout the land at every movement and word, the same short, sharp, deafening bark — of affirmation, distaste, or warning it was impossible to tell — and occasionally he let forth a whine or a howl in which no person, act, or event could be distinguished. Now it happened. . that a giant rabid forest pig came upon the camp of the Telechines, wreaking havoc and ravaging the land, uprooting the vines and goring sheep. Several warriors were sent with various weapons, but they failed and were killed. Throughout this, the many-headed dog at the cave was strangely and uniquely silent. They sent more heroes and even highly paid mercenaries against the forest pig, but none could deal with him. It was then decided that this was too serious a matter to serve as a test of individual courage. So for the first time they banded together in a hunting party, young and old, slaves and masters, guests and women, including among them Marea, a golden-haired, snow-souled girl and most reliable archer. A buckle of polished gold confined her vest, an ivory quiver hung upon her shoulder, and she possessed a pack of the fleetest hounds. Onto the hunt they pushed, stringing nets in the woods from tree to tree and, moving them ever closer, they encircle the monster’s lair. But the forest pig bolted and broke the net, and after killing several dogs and men, hid in a marsh among the reeds. The men followed his path, sinking to their waists in the mire. Marea watched all this closely. She sank, too, though not quite as deep, and then slipped her hounds from the thong, and they splashed up to their long ears in the muck. Soon the reeds parted as the beast began to move, the only clue a slight furrow in the marshgrass. Then Marea took an arrow, loosed it at the point of the furrow, and the beast sprung up wounded, spewing blood from its nostrils on the green flowers. The dogs were quickly hard on his flank, turning him toward the floundering men. Finally, four or five of the warriors, covered with black mud, lumbering as slowly as in a dream, plunged their spears into him. The last of these, the rock-footed youth Melagor, threw his spear behind the last rib, and with this the forest pig leapt up and fell furiously in death. A shout went up, glorifying the conqueror. But Melagor cut off the ear and a tusk, and presented them to Marea, insisting that the girl whose hounds had trapped the boar, and whose arrow had drawn first blood, be awarded the prize. This was the first and final gesture of love. Not a trophy or gift, but simply a gesture of fair due. The other men insisted they would be shown up, despoiled by a mere girl, if she were given the trophy, and an argument ensued. They ripped the tusk from her hands and then began a violent argument among themselves. Marea made a grave mistake here. She laughed. At this a battle in the mud ensued, and Melagor inadvertently killed one of the men. This was the first sin, though some say it came before. The girl who at first had blushed and laughed now tried to pass by, still carrying the pig’s ear. With slain warriors at her feet, the girl who was at first indignant, then amused, was now hysterical with grief, and these strange emotions, laughter and tears, so soon upon one another, stopped the men momentarily, and caused them to reconsider that the triumph, inexpert as it was, was somehow to be shared. But soon they were fighting again amongst one another, not for the glory but so the other could not have it, though by now the ear was shredded and of no use to anyone. The god of little faith watched this athletic spectacle in utter boredom. He had not gone through his furious motions to watch such predictable and banal sport, and resolving to begin again, changed all the Telechines into stags, forgetting Marea’s hounds, who remain to this day in the marsh as pike, and once the god had exited, other tribes easily caught the stags and destroyed them. Now alone, Marea leapt into the sea and was turned into a star, lit with a low blush. . ”

Gubik concluded his obmutescent soliloquy, took a long drink of soda water, and waved his hand as if brushing away a fly. The group around the fire fell silent.

“That’s all?” the Professor insisted, flabbergasted. “I mean, it’s not exactly Goethe.”

Gubik crossed his arms and said nothing more.

“They changed their minds,” the Professor insisted. “It’s the beginning of civilization you’re describing. They saw their error.”

“Yes,” said Gubik, smiling with impromptu gravitas. “But it was too late.”

“Ah, yes,” Father echoed absently. “Too late. Right from the beginning.”

“And no one came to their aid?” the Professor said.

“No one,” Gubik said emphatically through a thin smile. “Dogmeat! The aurochs laughed so hard milk came out their noses.”

“And the star, the girl who changed into a star,” the Professor whined. “What was the name of the star?”

Gubik shook his head slowly. “Just one of the stars,” he said laconically.

“Then there’s no lesson at all,” the Professor said curtly. “It’s not very charming. I mean it rather dribbles out, don’t you think? You don’t make any connections!”

Gubik licked the rim of his bowl. “Thus far and no further.”

“There are, Doctor, you must admit, some pertinent if pessimistic observations,” Father broke in, as always protective of Gubik. The Professor was growing slightly apoplectic.

“Then what, may I ask,” said the Professor, now at the far side of exasperation, “is this story of injustice called?”

Our Astingi Homer squinted and looked up into the sky.

“‘The Dog in the Manger,’” he stammered. “There are probably better stories.” Then he rolled over and covered himself in sheepskin, and soon we were all asleep, save the Professor and Catspaw, who, with the help of an astronomical atlas, were scanning the heavens for the star of Marea.

“So full of holes, so flat,” the Professor was moaning, “no respect for either verisimilitude or illusion, and yet,” he pounded a fist into the flat of his hand, “everyone is entranced.”

“Strange how the ancient bards were so unobservant of nature,” Catspaw said consolingly. “Virgil didn’t know the Pleiades from Pisces, or whether the moon was rising or setting.” And then he uncorked the plum brandy as the Professor produced two Trabuko cigars.

The two men leaned against the wagon wheel, alternating puffs and swigs, until the phosphorescent constellations doubled. And though he had the weaker eyes of the two, it was the Professor who first spied the star sitting directly upon the Eastern horizon, and laid a hand upon Catspaw’s thigh. Catspaw squinted at the low blushed light for some time.

“A shepherd’s fire,” he dismissed it as, and returned to his oral pleasures in a doze. But ten minutes later, the Professor again squeezed his leg.

“It’s getting brighter.”

Catspaw took another look, and with surprising agility climbed into the wagon bed. He emerged with an old-fashioned, long-barreled American squirrel rifle and a pair of Zeiss binoculars.

“In all my years in the Marches,” he said, “I have never seen a shepherd moving toward you.” He adjusted the glasses, closing one eye, but could make out nothing but a faint glare, perhaps six miles off. Concluding this was no heavenly body, and that the odds of something benign approaching you in the Marches at three o’clock in the morning were nil, he did not wake his Master, but checked the tether ropes of the horses and oxen in case he had to fire the eardrum-shattering rifle. Resting the weapon on the iron siding of the wagon, he brought the long barrel to bear on the flickering light.