The Worm Ouroboros by Eric Rücker Eddison (english readers txt) 📕

the morn. If we like not these lettuce, we may pull back our lips. But

no choice remaineth. If Laxus will deny us sea-room through

Melikaphkhaz Straits, I trow there shall go up thence a crash which

when the King heareth it he shall know it for our first banging on the

gates of Carcë.”

Of news brought unto Gorice the King in Carcë

out of the south, where the Lord Laxus lying in

the straits with his armada held the fleet of

Demonland prisoned in the Midland Sea.

ON a night of late summer leaning towards autumn, eight weeks after

the sailing of the Demons out of Muelva as is aforewrit, the Lady

Prezmyra sate before her mirror in Corund’s lofty bedchamber in

Carcë. The night without was mild and full of stars. Within, yellow

flames of candles burning steadily on either side of the mirror rayed

forth tresses of tinselling brightness in twin glories or luminous

spheres of warmth. In that soft radiance grains as of golden fire swam

and circled, losing themselves on the confines of the gloom where the

massy furniture and the arras and the figured hangings of the bed were

but cloudier divisions and congestions of the general dark. Prezmyra’s

hair caught the beams and imprisoned them in a tawny tangle of

splendour that swept about her head and shoulders down to the emerald

clasps of her girdle. Her eyes resting idly on her own fair image in

the shining mirror, she talked light nothings with her woman of the

bedchamber who, plying the comb, stood behind her chair of gold and

tortoise-shell.

“Reach me yonder book, nurse, that I may read again the words of that

serenade the Lord Gro made for me the night when first we had tidings

from my lord out of Impland of his conquest of that land, and the King

did make him king thereof.”

The old woman gave her the book, that was bound in goatskin chiselled

and ornamented by the gilder’s art, fitted with clasps of gold, and

enriched with little gems, smaragds and margery-pearls, inlaid in the

panels of its covers. Prezmyra turned the page and read:

You meaner Beauties of the Night.

That poorly satisfie our Eies.

More by your number than your light.

You Common-people of the Skies;

What are you when the Moone shall rise?

You Curious Chanters of the Wood.

That warble forth Dame Natures layes.

Thinking your Passions understood

By your weake accents; what’s your praise

When Philomell her voyce shall raise?

You Violets that first apeare.

By your pure purpel mantles knowne.

Like the proud Virgins of the yeare.

As if the Spring were all your own;

What are you when the Rose is blowne?

So, when my Princess shall be seene

In form and Beauty of her mind.

By Vertue first, then Choyce a Queen.

Tell me, if she were not design’d

Th’ Eclypse and Glory of her kind.

She abode silent awhile. Then, in a low sweet voice where all the

chords of music seemed to slumber: “Three years will be gone next

Yule-tide,” she said, “since first I heard that song. And not yet am I

grown customed to the style of Queen.”

“‘Tis pity of my Lord Gro,” said the nurse.

“Thou thinkest?”

“Mirth sat oftener on your face, O Queen, when he was here, and you

were used to charm his melancholy and make a pish of his phantastical

humorous forebodings.”

“Oft doubting not his forejudgement,” said Prezmyra, “even the while I

thripped my fingers at it. But never saw I yet that the louring

thunder hath that partiality of a tyrant, to blast him that faced it

and pass by him that quailed before it.”

“He was most deeply bound servant to your beauty,” said the old woman.

“And yet,” she said, viewing her mistress sidelong to see how she

would receive it, “that were a miss easily made good.”

She busied herself with the comb awhile in silence. After a time she

said, “O Queen, mistress of the hearts of men, there is not a lord in

Witchland, nor in earth beside, you might not bind your servant with

one thread of this hair of yours. The likeliest and the goodliest were

yours at an eye-glance.”

The Lady Prezmyra looked dreamily into her own sea-green eyes imaged

in the glass. Then she smiled mockingly and said, “Whom then

accountest thou the likeliest and the goodliest man in all the

stablished earth?”

The old woman smiled. “O Queen,” answered she, “this was the very

matter in dispute amongst us at supper only this evening.”

“A pretty disputation!” said Prezmyra. “Let me be merry. Who was

adjudged the fairest and gallantest by your high court of censure?”

“It was not generally determined of, O Queen. Some would have my Lord

Gro.”

“Alack, he is too feminine,” said Prezmyra.

“Others our Lord the King.”

“There is none greater,” said Prezmyra, “nor more worshipful. But for

an husband, thou shouldst as well wed with a thunderstorm or the

hungry sea. Give me some more.”

“Some chose the lord Admiral.”

“That,” said Prezmyra, “was a nearer stroke. No skipjack nor soft

marmalady courtier, but a brave, tall, gallant gentleman. Ay, but too

watery a planet burned at his nativity. He is too like a statua of a

man. No, nurse, thou must bring me better than he.”

The nurse said, “True it is, O Queen, that most were of my thinking

when I gave ‘em my choice: the king of Demonland.”

“Fie on thee!” cried Prezmyra. “Name him not so that was too unmighty

to hold that land against our enemies.”

“Folk say it was by foxish arts and practices magical a was spilt on

Krothering Side. Folk say ‘twas divels and not horses carried the

Demons down the mountain at us.”

“They say!” cried Prezmyra. “I say to thee, he hath found it apter to

his bent to flaunt his crown in Witchland than make ‘em give him the

knee in Galing. For a true king both knee and heart do truly bow

before him. But this one, if he had their knee ‘twas in the back side

of him he had it, to kick him home again.”

“Fie, madam!” said the nurse.

“Hold thy tongue, nurse,” said Prezmyra. “It were good ye were all

well whipped for a bunch of silly mares that know not a horse from an

ass.”

The old woman watching her in the glass counted it best keep silence.

Prezmyra said under her breath as if talking to herself, “I know a man

should not have miscarried it thus.” The old nurse that loved not Lord

Corund and his haughty fashions and rough speech and wine-bibbing, and

was besides jealous that so rude a stock should wear so rich ajewel as

was her mistress, followed not her meaning.

After some time, the old woman spake softly and said, “You are full of

thoughts tonight, madam.”

Prezmyra’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “Why may I not be so and it

likes me?” said she.

That stony look of the eyes struck like a gong some twenty-year-old

memory in the nurse’s heart: the little wilful maiden, ill to goad but

good to guide, looking out from that Queen’s face across the years.

She knelt down suddenly and caught her arms about her mistress’s

waist. “Why must you wed then, dear heart?” said she, “if you were

minded to do what likes you? Men love not sad looks in their wives.

You may ride a lover on the curb, madam, but once you wed him ‘tis all

t’other way: all his way, madam, and beware of ‘had I wist.’”

Her mistress looked down at her mockingly. “I have been wed seven

years tonight. I should know these things.”

“And this night!” said the nurse. “And but an hour till midnight, and

yet he sitteth at board.”

The Lady Prezmyra leaned back to look again on her own mirrored

loveliness. Her proud mouth sweetened to a smile. “Wilt thou learn me

common women’s wisdom?” said she, and there was yet more voluptuous

sweetness trembling in her voice. “I will tell thee a story, as thou

hast told them me in the old days in Norvasp to wile me to bed. Hast

thou not heard tell how old Duke Hilmanes of Maltraeny, among some

other fantasies such as appear by night unto many in divers places,

had one in likeness of a woman with old face of low and little stature

or body, which did scour his pots and pans and did such things as a

maid servant ought to do, liberally and without doing of any harm? And

by his art he knew this thing should be his servant still, and bring

unto him whatsoever he would, so long time as he should be glad of the

things it brought him. But this duke, being a foolish man and a

greedy, made his familiar bring him at once all the year’s seasons and

their several goods and pleasures, and all good things of earth at one

time. So as in six months’ space, he being sated with these and all

good things, and having no good thing remaining unto him to expect or

to desire, for very weariness did hang himself. I would never have

ta’en me an husband, nurse, and I had not known that I was able to

give him every time I would a new heaven and a new earth, and never

the same thing twice.”

She took the old woman’s hands in hers and gathered them to her

breast, as if to let them learn, rocked for a minute in the bountiful

infinite sweetness of that place, what foolish fears were these.

Suddenly Prezmyra clasped the hands tighter in her own, and shuddered

a little. She bent down to whisper in the nurse’s ear, “I would not

wish to die. The world without me should be summer without roses.

Carcë without me should be a night without the star-shine.”

Her voice died away like the night breeze in a summer garden. In the

silence they heard the dip and wash of oar-blades from the river

without; the sentinel’s challenge, the answer from the ship.

Prezmyra stood up quickly and went to the window. She could see the

ship’s dark bulk by the water-gate, and comings and goings, but nought

clearly. “Tidings from the fleet,” she said. “Put up my hair.”

And ere that was done, came a little page running to her chamber door,

and when it was opened to him, stood panting from his running and

said, “The king your husband bade me tell you, madam, and pray you go

down to him i’ the great hall. It may be ill news, I fear.”

“Thou fearest, pap-face?” said the Queen. “I’ll have thee whipped if

thou bringest thy fears to me. Dost know aught? What’s the matter?”

“The ship’s much battered, O Queen. He is closeted with our Lord the

King, the skipper. None dare speak else. ‘Tis feared the high

Admiral–”

“Feared!” cried she, swinging round for the nurse to put about her

white shoulders her mantle of sendaline and cloth of silver, that

shimmered at the collar with purple amethysts and was scented with

cedar and galbanum and myrrh. She was forth in the dark corridor, down

by the winding marble stair, through the midcourt, hasting to the

banquet hall. The court was full of folk talking; but nought certain,

nought save suspense and wonder; rumour of a great sea-fight in the

south, a mighty victory won by Laxus upon the