The Hollowing by Robert Holdstock
The smith glanced over his shoulder, then frowned and began to back away.
On the lake shore, an old man in a long, dark cloak, holding a long spear, watched what was happening and called again. The glint of firelight on this tall character’s eyes reminded Richard of the light on the serpent’s gaze as it had consumed Taaj, illuminating a soulless curiosity and aggressive determination. Richard shivered as he looked at the man by the water.
The smith spoke to this figure again, and this time Richard thought he heard a name: Yar sun.
The name was familiar. He played its sound in his mind. It was distinctly familiar, and when the smith repeated it the sound became clear, and Richard felt a thrill of excitement as he realised who was confronting him on the shore.
Jason!
* * *
The argonauts had worked all night and by dawn the Argo was secure and upright, still impaled on the rocks but ready, now, for the first planks to be repaired. At the water’s edge the effigy of Hera was a grim depiction of the manipulative nature of the Goddess. Her face was pinched, her eyes wide and angry, and although there was beauty there, the effect was disempowering. One would not enter lightly into a relationship with a woman whose need for gratification was so determinedly portrayed. Ten feet high, wreathed in the coils of black smoke from the braziers, the statue gazed across the bowed, crouching shape of a man in a black, wool-trimmed cloak: Jason himself, but a man now long-years-since finished with the quest for which he had become renowned.
He was talking occasionally and nodding, as if in communion with the idol. When he stood it was a sudden movement and he turned quickly to look directly at Richard, hidden among the rocks. Richard started with shock as the dark face broke into a cruel grin and a brawny hand lifted, finger extended, pointing. The idol had drawn attention to him.
This was an old man. Below the dark fur hood, Jason’s hair and beard were grey, and the naked torso that was now revealed was sagging, the belly full over a wide sword belt, like a girdle, the thighs still strong, but loose-skinned. He was in his seventies, by the look of him, and his companions not far off, their women friends too; they formed a gap-toothed, grey-haired, crouch-boned crew of adventurers, but strong in arm, and still strong in menace.
The smith was attacking rigging rings and bolts, sending sparks flying. The dull sound of hammered bronze pulsed along the lake shore.
Richard returned to Old Stone Hollow in time to see the centaur moving furtively away up the river. It glanced back as it heard movement and raised an arm in thanks before trotting jerkily into the shadows.
An hour later the first of the argonauts edged cautiously through the gully and approached the giant effigy which Richard had constructed at the gateway to the compound. The man had no beard, just a wide moustache. His grey hair was lank, but held back by a simple purple headband. He carried a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a wide-bladed cutting sword that reflected greenly as he held it at the ready. Apart from sandals and a belt fringed with leather strips, he was naked below the heavy cloak of stitched skins that he wore, opened at the front. They had come from hot Aegean weather into this brisk, chilly autumnal world.
The man stood across the river and peered into Old Stone Hollow, observing the cliff, the longhouse, the height of the palisade, the wooden Guardian. He was nervous, curious, and perhaps only an advance guard. From hiding in the long grass Richard scanned the cliff top and the other paths, but he saw nothing. As the argonaut stepped into the river, to cross it and enter the compound, Richard darted quickly to the tent that protected the generator and increased its power to the wires, ground tracks, and laser channels around the Station.
The effect was astonishing. The man stopped suddenly, very puzzled, then began to scream, stumbling back in the water, falling, dragging himself up onto the bank again. Around him, the land heaved, the trees shuddered. He jerked his hand away from the sudden tug of green tendrils that had emerged to wrap around him. Again he screamed, this time in terror, his voice taking on a strange quality, deepening, until it was not recognisably human. He was still standing, but he had become grey. Gradually his spine arched and he tumbled back. There was a scurrying of activity around him and ground-ivy flowed to cover him. Below this unlikely shroud he continued to struggle and breathe for some time, occasionally emitting a cry of intense pain, occasionally calling helplessly for Jason.
As he had fallen, so there had been a quick movement back towards the gully. Richard darted round the palisade and peered out, in time to see Jason and two others returning in haste, and certainly in confusion, to their lakeside camp by the Argo.
* * *
Later in the day, one of the women and another argonaut edged through the gully. They called out repeatedly, advertising their presence, and took a wide arc up the slope, above the river, before cautiously coming to the water’s edge, grinning and nodding, there to place a gleaming jug and a roll of fleece on the ground. They were unarmed and crept away. Richard watched them go, then fetched the offerings into the compound, delighting in the fact that he was clearly regarded as some terrible creature that would need placating. He remembered the Gorgon, however, and was not unaware that to these ageing adventurers, placation might only be a first ruse in the eventual tricking and destroying of the mysterious, magical life-form that they had encountered.
How did Jason and his crew regard him, he wondered? They had adventured against cyclops and titans, gorgons and sirens, the guardians of magic groves and serpents. Here, now, they had beached by magic on a cold lake shore, after passing, perhaps, through an odd storm, or clashing rocks, on the sunny Aegean. They were in a mysterious land, and threatened by a wild man, a wizard, who summoned the very earth to consume one of their men by touching a bizarre, metallic monster that hummed a single note, and whined to call for more prey.
The jug was of beaten gold. It contained a sharp wine, flavoured with lavender, and he was immediately suspicious, risking no more than a taste on the end of his finger. The vessel was exquisite, decorated with figures of heroes, and the full and leafy features of the god of all things indulgent. The roll of fleece did not reveal gold, to his disappointment, but was beautifully soft, white with fine streaks of grey, and cut carefully to make a shoulder wrap, the ties at the front being the small, scaly horns of the creature that had perhaps once worn the hide more naturally. The horns were not pronouncedly like a goat’s, nor sheep-like—more in the fashion of Pan, he thought.
The sounds of repair were loud. Richard heard trees being felled, the wood then chopped and shaped. The forge rang continuously and sometimes the breeze brought the smell of cooking and Richard sighed as he remembered good, tasty stews and succulent Sunday roasts of lamb and pork.
Perhaps his hunger carried on that same breeze. In the late afternoon, Jason and another burly fellow, both unarmed, both in sheepskins, brought a small copper cauldron to the river’s edge and left it there. A tantalising aroma of fish and Mediterranean herbs came from the pot. Jason’s companion withdrew nervously, but the leader of the argonauts remained. He produced a wooden spoon and consumed three mouthfuls of the soup and fish, then drew back so that Richard could cross the water and take the container. Jason made encouraging sounds, grinning, his mouth full of black teeth.
“Thank you,” Richard said, and added, “Daksi.”
Jason shook his head thoughtfully, crouched on his haunches, eyes alert for every movement, every twitch of the forest. Richard carried the cauldron back into the compound then came to the river’s edge again, dropping into the same tense crouch as his visitor. He was conscious of being explored carefully, examined in every detail, from his tennis shoes to his denim shorts, from the ragged affair of blankets that he wore around his shoulders for warmth to his braided hair and the bone slivers and egret feathers with which the boy had decorated him in recent, happier times.
Jason indicated the crumbling mound that was his dead companion and said a few words. Richard spread his hands and shook his head, be
Richard went on, “The field kills in different ways. It didn’t kill the centaur at all, and you seem safe enough. You’re mythagos. All of you. And you’re all vulnerable in different ways. This is a dying-place, for mythagos. It’s dangerous for you to be here.”
“Hollow,” Jason said. “Mythaaga…”
“Mythagos, that’s right.”
Jason shook his head, looking beyond Richard, then scanning the high rise of shadowy cliff. He stood and stretched, rubbing circulation back into his tanned and muscular legs. His bones creaked and cracked as he straightened, like the Argo on the beach, and he grinned broadly, an acknowledgement of age. He pointed to the stew and said something encouraging, then raised a hand in temporary farewell.
As he left he glanced back twice, his face an open book of thoughtful planning.
* * *
What was Richard’s significance to them? Were they afraid of him? Did he represent some goal in their adventure? Did they believe that he might be in possession of a magic that would aid their greater quest?
The Argo had been pulled down from the rocks, and was now suspended by ropes. Its stern was in the water, but its prow, and the damaged area of the hull, were more accessible to the carpenters and metalworkers, and Richard, watching from above the gully, could see how the planks had been cut back to expose the great tree that formed the keel.
An aspect of the Jason legend came back to him: the Argo was built around a sacred oak. He had always assumed that the keel had been shaped from the tree, however, not that the tree itself had been incorporated into the vessel. Yet there it was, its branches like veins, reaching up and through the narrow space below the deck, winding around like roots, a cage of branches containing strength and magic, a cage of branches within the man-formed sleek shape of the ship itself.
Two of the argonauts were at work repairing several broken branches, applying an unguent. Smoking censers had been placed inside the tree, and the vapour wafted out across the lake. Looking carefully, Richard could see movement inside the oak cage, acts of propitiation, perhaps, or repair to the main trunk.
It was as he watched the bustle of activity that he heard the sound of a girl crying out in anguish. A harsh male voice barked an order. Much of the work on the ship stopped for a moment and there was a clattering, somewhere below decks, the sound of hooves, or stamping, and then a rattle of metal followed again by the girl’s shrill cry.
One of the argonauts laughed. A length of rigging slipped, uncurling as it plunged, and was caught by a man below. The new mast was up, the sail being hauled to its cross-bar. The accident broke the moment’s mood, and activity began again.
Five minutes later, one of the planks at the rear of the ship began to move. Curious, Richard moved closer through the rock and trees. The panel had been loosened by the force of the beaching. It opened along three feet of its length, and a dark, frightened face peered out at the shore. Daylight glinted on wide eyes, then a second face, this one more animal than human, glanced out anxiously before withdrawing.
The plank snapped back into place with a crack, but the sound went unremarked by the busy men around.
* * *
In the evening Richard built a fire just inside the gates of the Station and racked up the generator. On the far bank, where the argonaut had died, an odd tree had grown. It shivered despite the lack of wind, and carried four small, yellow fruits, round and shiny. Richard declined to go across the river and investigate them.
Movement in the gully alerted him and he quickly strung his long bow, then nocked an arrow. Over the weeks since he had found this weapon he had become adept at its use, though the flights and heads were getting battered now and he had so far failed to make a successful arrow himself.
From the long grass he could see the gleam of light in the defensive field, and in places the glitter of the thin wires that carried the current. Water splashed, a man’s voice barked, a girl’s voice protested. Richard drew back into the grass, crouching, and soon Jason and three others appeared across the river. Jason had a small, dark-skinned girl with him, chained around her neck, her face open and frightened. She wore a thin wrap that scarcely covered her skeletal limbs.
Jason called to him and Richard came out of cover. “What do you want?”
The girl immediately closed her eyes, concentrating hard. Jason just grinned and watched the other man. His companions shifted uneasily, tugging skins around their chests. One of them kept a weather-eye on the huge bow, which Richard had drawn, the arrow turned only slightly to the side. Richard felt his arm twitch with the effort of holding the weapon, but he sensed menace in the air and was taking no chances.
Again Jason spoke. He slapped his chest, his mouth, and indicated Richard. He wanted to come over the water and talk. He wanted to bring the girl. Was that permitted?
“Just you, then. Not your friends. They must go back to the Argo.”
“Argo?” Jason repeated. Richard stabbed a finger at the other three men and then towards the shore. Jason grasped the message. His friends withdrew. Jason tugged the protesting girl and they waded through the deep water, shivering as they came ashore, crouching gladly by the fire in the gateway below the menacing glare of Richard’s totem.
Closer to, when Richard met the gaze of Jason’s prisoner and saw the etched lines of experience and humour, of pain and defiance all around the sparkling eyes, the corners of her mouth, he realised that it was only her slightness that had made him think of her as a girl, rather than the subdued but still defiant young woman that she was.
Jason produced a piece of cloth and unwrapped a rare-cooked and juicy shin of mutton. It gave off an aroma of rosemary and garlic and as Jason saw the hungry look in Richard’s eyes, so Richard saw the look in the woman’s. She was starving. Jason hacked off a portion of the meat and ate it, then carved a slice for Richard, who took it and consumed it with gusto. The woman accepted a small slice, behaving as if she were surprised to be offered such a treat. There was wine too, a clay amphora containing about two pints. Jason took a long draught, then Richard, and this time he appreciated the drink, with its honeyish aftertaste and warming effect on his stomach.
“Thank you,” he said, and the woman repeated, “Thank you.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Richard went on, then frowned as the woman said, in perfect imitation, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Jason watched her, nudged her, but she shook her head and scowled, rattling the thin length of chain with which he held her. She looked hungrily at the lamb and the big man sliced more for her, then for Richard. She chewed gratefully, dark eyes sparkling. Her skin tone suggested the Middle East. Her hair was jet black, but cropped short. Her ear-lobes gaped grotesquely with holes where heavy rings had once hung, and indeed, there was a distension in the flesh of her nostrils too. A thin covering of dark hair spread from her ankles to her knees, and bushed from below her arms. She was boyish in shape, her face seeming older than her breastless body. The wrap that covered her was purple, and the designs were of broad-headed lions, winged dragons, and sharp-beaked eagles.
“Why are you repeating what I say?” Richard asked.
“Why are you repeating what I say?”
“Are you trying to understand me?”
“Are you trying to understand me?”
“My name is Richard. What’s yours?”
“My name is Richard…” She trailed off, looked down.
Jason leaned forward expectantly, watching her. He said something and she nodded.
She murmured, “I know him now.” She looked up, brows dark, head cocked. “It’s a strange tongue. I know you though, I know how you speak. Many tongues muddled. What do you call it? Your language…”
“Englis
“I already knew it—I just had to find it. It’s a long-to-come language. They float in me like dreams. There are so many. The languages of the long-gone are easier. But I have him—you—I have you now. I have your tongue. You are Richard.”
“Yes. And you?”
“Sarinpushtam. My sad companions, below the deck of the Argo, call me Sarin. This is Jason.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Don’t trust him.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“I’m hungry. Please indicate that I should have more meat, or this man will deny me. He’s very cruel.”
Aware that contact had been established, Jason tightened the chain around Sarin’s neck, tugged her and growled at her. She spoke to him in his language and he glanced at Richard, nodding, then smiling grimly. He released the girl, who touched her neck tenderly and started to ask questions. He expected Sarin to translate, but the girl just watched Richard, eyes haunted. Richard pointed to the lamb and to the girl and Jason’s features darkened, but he got the message, sliced a thick piece of meat, and passed it to Sarin. He watched her impatiently as she ate it, seeming to chew longer than necessary, licking her lips exaggeratedly, closing her eyes in ecstasy when she wasn’t watching Jason carefully and tauntingly. When she had finished she wiped her fingers on the ground, looked hard at Jason and wiggled her tongue between her lips in an odd gesture. She smiled “sweetly” as Jason passed her the wine amphora, and drank so deeply from it that Richard was surprised to hear the slosh of remaining liquid when she passed it back.