The Scorpion God: Three Short Novels by William Golding Read Free Book Online

Head Man stopped strolling.
    “Not again!”
    “I can’t do it. Keeping the sky up—bouncing up and down on my sister—keeping my eyes open—making the river rise——”
    The Head Man struck one fist into the other hand. For a moment it seemed as if he would burst out in fury; but he mastered himself, bowing his head, swallowing, breathing deeply.
    “Look, child. You don’t know our danger. You don’t know how little time there is—your sister withdrawn—seeing no one—the river rising——”
    He bent down and peered into the Prince’s face.
    “You must do it! Everything will be all right. I promise. Now. Try again.”
    Once more the Prince took up the godpose. The Head Man watched him for a while.
    “That’s better! Now. I have to see your sister—have to! So I shall leave you here. Stay as you are until the sun reaches from one side of the entrance to the other.”
    He drew himself up, raised one hand, lowered it to his knee, took three steps backward, then turned and hurried away.
    When the swish, swish of the Head Man’s skirt was out of earshot, the Prince let out all his breath and slumped, eyes shut. He raised a bony forearm and smeared it across his face. He shifted his skinny rump, where the tail was making it ache. He laid the crook and flail on the floor by the chair. He looked at the doorway for a moment; then tore the linen crown from his head, so that the close-fitting wig came with it, and the narrow strap of the beard broke. He flung the whole thing down on the crook and flail. He hunched, glumly, chin on fists, elbows on knees. A grain of sunlight on tiles flashed into view and he screwed up his eyes against it. The grain enlarged to a brilliant patch.
    He jerked upright in the chair, then began to walk restlessly, pad, pad, round the huge room. He glanced now and then at the walls, where the bird-headed, dog-headed figures did not weep. He stopped at last, in the middle of the room with his back to the sunlight. Slowly he lifted his head, peered up at the gloomy beams and awful solidity of the rafters. He flinched away from the sight as if the beams threatened to fall on his head.
    He went softly to the entrance and looked into the corridor. At one end, a guard leaned against the wall. The Prince squared his shoulders as best he could and walked steadily towards the guard, who woke and lifted his spear. The Prince ignored him and turned the corner, where a girl backed submissively against the wall to let him pass. He went away through the Great House, ignoring all the people he met until he came to the back and heard the muted noises from the kitchens. He passed them, the cooks lying asleep, the scouring and staring scullions, their court where geese roasted slowly over charcoal on spits under the open sky. The postern gate to the cliffs and desert was open. He took a deep breath, like a boy about to dive, clenched his fists, and passed through.
    Outside the gate, he paused in the shadow of the wall and examined the knees of cliffs, sandscrees, the line of rock-edge against the sky. Everything was fierce and barren. There was nothing as pleasant as palmshade by water; but there were plenty of places to hide. He began to make his way forward and up, keeping where he could in the shadow of rocks, though there was little enough of that. As he went, he muttered.
    “She can keep it up!”
    He was crying.
    He stumbled sideways and crouched behind a boulder, peering round it. There was a man among the rocks. This man knelt on a knoll of rock so that he was outlined in profile against the cliffs. His head was bowed as though the sun had struck him down.
    The man knelt up. He began to do something regular with his arms and suddenly the Prince understood that the man was pulling a string or a rope out of the earth. No sooner had he understood this than he saw some bowls and platters appear under the man’s hand—held perhaps in a net of cords too thin to be visible. The man stood up, made a