And then they were upon the beach, and some crowd of people stood a bit apart, not frightened, no, but perhaps shy. And one other man stepped forward and he and the shipper clasped each others’ hands and for a moment it seemed their fingers made motions one or more upon the others; then Vergil looked about him: a sweet shore, with leaning trees, a gentle coast of gentle people; they did laugh gentle laughter when he spoke to them in Latin, then they came closer and of their own motion, and the language which they spoke was soft and they spoke it slowly and they smiled. He did not of course know the lingua of the Guaramanty and so he did not know if this was it at all.
“Where are you going?” he called to the crewmen. “We have only just come ashore,” for they were wading out to their vessel, which they had not deigned to beach.
“Let your heart be easy, ser and lord,” the captain called. “This poor fellow hath been a cast away here some long time while, so long the while that he has not eaten bread nor ought of his familiar diet,” as he spoke he turned his head and spoke over his shoulder and kept on wading into the deepening shallow. “So soon as we have victualed him and give him fresh clouts to wear upon his carc and as the poet says, ‘Wine to make his face shine,’ we do return with goods for trade.” He scuttled up the side of the craft after his crewmen, calling loud, “Fear the folk not, taste their quaint grub and drink their liquid fruit, we’ll not be half a smallish sand-glass.” He shouted a word, merely a syllable, towards the shore, Vergil knew it not, clearly the islanders knew it well; at once, almost, one of them offered a vessel with a tempting liquor within, repeating what seemed the same word the shipman called.
Vergil sniffed it; it was very fragrant. He sipped of it; it was quite delicious; without further delay he drained it down, without further thought he held the vessel out, noting only that it was old: where the handle had been was rubbed quite smooth with use: but it was clean. With a happy murmur the people filled it from a larger jug; no doubt —
He left the thought forgotten, and he drank again. Again, the slow and simple laughter of the locals. They were naked, and they were not ashamed. He paused, the cup at his lip. “Guaramanties?” They chuckled and they said something; it was not quite the same word, but it seemed similar. Was their name simel, but not the same? Did they imitate him, not with total success? They touched him, they rubbed his skin, they ran their fingers through his hair, they touched his virile member as it had been, say, his nose … alclass="underline" very, very, gently. Gently they pulled at him, gently they pushed at him, gently they drew him to where a larger number of them reclined between the sunlight and the shade. And here the same slow, soft, smiling scene was repeated.
The sunlight had wandered quite a ways away and the shade had gone all long when Vergil, seeing of a sudden through a gap atween the trees the ship far off under sail, chuckled aloud. “Well they have diddled me!” he said. “They recognized by the semaphores of the smoke that they had a fellow-member of some league and coven here ashore, and, as twas clear to them at once, as tis clear to me now, there would not fit in comfort or perhaps in supplies yet another man aboard the ship, they simply set me on this shore and took him aboard instead. Well done, was well and clever done!” and here he laughed until the tears, swam down into his beard.
And all the islanders laughed with him. It was not likely that they understood at all why he was a-laugh, but they were all quick to merriment anyway; in a moment they had turned away from him and gan a languid game of tossing some golden fruit from one to another, and this amused him quite as much as had the contemplation of the trickery. “And now it is my own turn to wait until some ship of men from that world of sweat and sorrow, wars and woes, may find me here. And if this be not so swift, well, well enough.” Here he made gestures to them that he was thirsty, but it seemed they heard him not. He forced himself to think of a word, no force had force with him, but soon enough he thought he recked it well enough. “Nawm!” he called. “Mawn!” he called. “Num-num. Numma!” It must have been near enough, for at once a one of them let throw the fruit and turned aside and poured him somewhat from the great jug. And he drank of it, drank he of it deep. “I am tired,” he muttered. “I would not think more. I would sleep.” And he fell laxly on his back and in a moment he turned slowly to one side, as little loath as the babb that turneth in the womb.
Slowly seeketh the mind of a man who hath travelled over far lands and dreameth in the folly of his heart. ‘Would that I were here, or would that I were there,’ and many are the wishes he conceiveth. And yet he too is fated to lie low in dust and blood amongst the dead. And do the dead have dreams?[8]
Perhaps he felt the warmth of the sun retreating from the sands. Perhaps the chill he felt was that of night. Was dew falling? was all the world gone damp? It was in no way unpleasant, merely he wondered. Merely he wondered what voice he heard, calling from afar, in scrannel tones a-calling, “The Mother of the Owl is cold, is cold! The Mother of the Owl is cold …”
Somehow he knew the old one’s name was Teter, and that in him there was no harm. And somehow he knew that the large one’s name was Alcinoüs. Somehow he knew that these were no names ever they gave themselves.
And somehow he knew that Alcinoüs meant to kill him. Although, somehow, he knew not why. There were many things he knew not now, and sometimes his mind seemed clear and sometimes it did not. Sometimes he thought, Now the Black Dream again again. And sometimes he did not.
Despite the taken-for-granted teaches of the organized and historical religion, the goat-footed nymphs were nought but the she-forms of the goat-footed satyrs. Another article of faith a-shattered … not through the scornful preaching of some peripatetic philosopher or from any word of home-grown cynic; but from the simple sight. His sight was clearer now. Often. “Numph,” said the old one, jerking his lugs (“ears” they could scarce be called) to the scarp of rock and shale and scree, through which over and down floated a whisp, a fraction, a ghost of a breeze: “Numph” — and hardly had his nares recognized a slight new scent, scarcely had he time more than to reflect on that well-known vowel-shift: hybris to hubris, Ludda to Lydda, Cumae to Kyme, Tur to Tyre, than she appeared, far less dainty than dumpty, thumping rather than tripping, tween tree and tree; in her hair flowers … or … anyway what looked like parsnip greens; the nymph was scarcely of the sort seen on krater or in illumed pages of parchment. The nymph of that island, someone had writted, smites the hearts of men as twere the face and form of Elen of Troy. Vergil swiftly thought on all this with a sinking of the spirit (his spirit must have risen if it could sink at all now) at the sight of this figure, this native of the rocks: low-hipped of body, long of head, heavy and almost horse-like yellow teeth broken here and there, huge nose, huge chin: could only allow himself, astonnied, to listen to the vatic voice (who knew if Troy had yet burned in war or if Troy and war and burning were yet to come?) “Was this the face that launched the thousand ships, and burned the topless towers of Ilium?” — “Numph,” emphasized old Teter. “Numph.”