Something within him had pressed, pressed gently but pressed … after some while … insistently … and so he had left the gentle company of those who, as who had put it? nummed the honey-sweet lotus and drank its fragrant liquor. Huldah had said that. He had as it were torn himself away from the gentle company upon the coast, had forced himself to flee into the wilderness where dwelt the far from always gentle satyrs. Wild honey he had found none, but part of his new diet was locust rather than lotus: the pods of the locust tree, called also carob, or acacia. And, slowly, oh so slowly, his mind had cleared. The mists and fogs had slowly been blown away. Once again he was in the midst of the island folk and gazing at a ship far out at sea.
Little though the Romans loved the sea and little though Vergil had been accustomed to judge of such matters, still, he felt to a certainty that this was not the same ship which had marooned him here. But he felt no such certainty that this vessel would of a certainty put in to this haven. Perhaps they knew not the nature of the land. Perhaps they knew very well and for that reason particularly desired to avoid it. Or … merely … perhaps their course lay elsewhere and they simply had no reason to divert or diverge.
No certainty.
Much perhaps.
Why was he of a sudden striding away from the point whereat he stood? Memory of a previous scene moved his legs and feet, was why. Memory of a more than half fallen-down hutch, doubtless intended for a cabin by some alien long ago: alien, for sure these islanders built no structures at all. Were the nights uncommon cool, simply they slept together … not, to be sure, in one great huddled mass … but rather parted into smaller groups which lay, all of a cuddle, each group by an each. Or else: they crept close together to the fire that burns by night, and fed it, many times and often, while the stars moved: for of fallen wood there was no lack where their groves and small forests grew: and of driftwood upon the beach, which had mayhap grown in far Aspamia or in (even) farthermost Thule, where there is little need for wooden fuel, there being (so men say) stones of black ice which burns like pitch-pine: pyrobolim[10], so some call them.
And in that withering hovel found he … what? His old soft doe-skin budget, for one. And a mass of rags roughly sewn together so as to form a semblance of a cape: this was none of his.
But twould do.
Here (or, there) was the fire that burns by night. Level daylight it was not, yet the fire burned. Now and then someone passing by languidly fed it; eventually that someone, any someone, every someone, would forget to feed it — how ancient this image of fire as a living thing which craved food and must be fed! — forgotten, it would dwindle and die: then see once again that scene of some man, braver or keener of wit than others, swift run along the main to whatever was their only known source of fire (for as to rubbing hard wood against soft, let alone the sophisticated spark of flint and steel and tinder: certes they knew nought). The old cape, almost coming apart in his hands, was fitter for tinder than for any use of clothing, but he had yet another use for it. Swift he sopped it in a shallow pool nearby, swift he wrung it out till it was but damp. Slowly, slowly, the column of smoke rose up, rose up. He cast the sodden cape upon it.
The column of smoke ceased, was estopped.
At once he swept the cloak away.
The smoke at once arose again.
Once more he covered it with the ragged cloak, that cape of rags.
Again the column of smoke was stopped.
Then he culled the mass of rotting cloth away, cast it aside.
The smoke rose and rose: unvexed again, it rose upon the sleepy air.
X
Isle Mazequa
Far out at sea, the thin vertical line which was a ship’s mast slowly, slowly turned, became broader by the width of a sail. Slowly grew broader, larger, nearer.
When he once again gained the beach, it was to see something like a sort of trade going on. These seamen were Sards, he was sure of it: those curious and deliberately lop-sided hats — bonnets, one might almost call them; the wrapped-twice-around-yet-still-loose neckerchiefs of faded red, the yellowish-brown trews — slanders of other seamen traditionally had it that these garments, coming only three-quarters of the way down the legs, had always been originally white but were never washed; Vergil knew their hue came from rough and home-made dye: and then, too, a certain look, undescribable as it was unmistakable: all proclaimed them Sards. There was, to be sure, a certain class of Sard freebooters, but they were not numerous. And certainly the look of these was merely rough, as was the everyday look of poor folk on every day not a festival day; rough, yes … but not ruffianly. Certain things were being passed from hand to hand; he recognized the pearly, opalescent sheen of moonstones, and the fine striking colors of as yet un-cut tourmalines. These one saw fairly often in Lotusland and the island-folk themselves sometimes picked them up and carried them away as idly as children with any unusual rocks or stones. Likely the Lotophages played some simple game with them … and then simply dropped them: there were always more … somewhere …
The Sards, in exchange, were passing over all sorts of rubble: mirrors shattered past hope of sale or trade in any ordinary mart in the whole Œconomium, cups saunce handles though clearly handles they had once had, boxes with broken lids or nay lids at all, scraps of cloth more brightly colored than any of the crewmen’s trews or neckcloths, hats outmoded and much battered: all sorts of rubbish.
When the supply of tourmaline and moonstone showed sign of running low, the Sards produced something as an inducement for more; more was forthcoming. The islanders had not been holding out, merely it had been a trouble to try and seek. Now here was something well-worth the trouble.
The Lotophagi received the sweet wine with soft soft sounds of pleasure. They would not plant the vines nor trench them nor wed them to the poplar and the elm to hold up the grape-heavy branches; and certainly neither would they make them presses nor tred the wine-fruit out with their feet … though possibly if this had been made into a game for them, with music and with song, they might have done so. Briefly. Certainly they had no sophisticated tastes; they did not require hippocras, that vile mixture of very bad wines, itself sophisticate with many bad spices; neither had they developed the corrupt palate which fancies the taste of pitch in wine, and which actually prefers the wine of that sort of grape which was said to have naturally the taste of pine-sap. Wine, sweet wine, did not have to be very, very sweet for them to like it. With soft sounds of pleasure they received and drank of it.
But by and by they did not trouble themselves to go in search of any more moonstone or tourmaline. There was no ivy mingled with the cheap, douce wine. It did not make the Lotophagi run mad, let alone turn anthropophagi like followers of certain drunken cults. Merely they layed them down to sleep.
Of course to the inhabitants they were, for the moments that the novelty lasted, not rubbish at all. And if the hotchpotch and galimaufry was of no actual benefit to them … why, neither were the moonstones or the tourmalines for which they sold them. (Not that it was likely that they considered the matter in any other light than an exchange of presents: baubles for baubles, play-pretties for others of the same.) For that much, of what actual, intrinsic use were the tourmalines, the moonstones, or any other gems or jewels? none whatsoever: they could not be eaten, drunk, nor used as tools. Well … diamonds were sometimes so worked as to be able to cut glass … and an old word which Vergil seldom forgot was that in verbis et herbis et lapides — but here he suddenly dropped all thought of science or art or philosophy; one of the island folk taking notice of his presence with a slight word and slight gesture, see every man jack of the Sard shipmen turn as one. And of that sudden second, freeze.
10
One text of The Matter gives