Ivan Efremov. The Land of Foam

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     TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY GEORGE H.HANNA
     FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE
     Moscow
     OCR: http://home.freeuk.com/russica2/ ¡ http://home.freeuk.com/russica2/
     The title of the original: ½Ð ÚàÐî ¾ÙÚãÜÕÝë ¡ ojkumena.txt
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     In 1922, when Ivan Yefremov, at the age of 16, passed his matriculation
examination  in Petrograd, it  is  doubtful whether he even thought that one
day he might become a writer.
     He had been early left an orphan  and went through the Civil War as the
protege of a Red Army Regiment. He had read many books, but the one with the
wonderful pictures and  descriptions of strange animals had always attracted
him more than any other.
     ... Academician  Sushkin's  study opened its  doors to him without  any
letters of recommendation - the  Academician devoted the youngster the hours
torn from the days already packed tight with work; it was something of great
significance,  something  they  both   had  in   common,  that  brought  the
fifty-five-year-old scholar and the sixteen-year-old boy together.
     In  1927  Ivan  Yefremov  published  his  first   scientific  paper   A
Description of the Habitats  of Ancient  Amphibians. Other scholarly  papers
followed one after another and  in  1935 their author was granted the degree
of Candidate of Science. Five years later he earned the degree of Doctor.
     His constant search for extinct animals had taken him to the Far North,
Eastern Siberia, Yakutia, the Urals,  the  Far East, Central and Inner Asia,
Mongolia and Western China -- always following untrodden paths.
     In   1943  the  scholar   launched   out  as   a  writer   of   popular
science-fiction;  among  his  books  are  the  romances  Stellar  Ships  and
Baurjed's Travels.

     The romance The Land of Foam appeared in 1949; it is a story of the art
and culture of ancient Greece and  ancient  Egypt, of the  people inhabiting
the world of those days; the varying landscape of Africa is shown in all its
awe-inspiring  grandeur.  A  young  Hellene, Pandion,  is  enslaved  by  the
Egyptians,  escapes and on his way back home has many  thrilling adventures.
With his friends, the  Negro  Kidogo,  and Etruscan  Cavius, he crosses  the
African continent and on reaching the sea carves a wonderful cameo, a symbol
of friendship and loyalty.

     In 1954 Yefremov finished his book The Road of the Winds,  describing a
16,  000-mile journey in search of extinct  animals in the windswept steppes
of  Mongolia.  In  1957  he  published a new popular-scientific romance  The
Galaxy of Andromeda the action of which takes place 2,500 years from now.
     Yefremov's is a twin  talent,  that of  the  scientist who strives  for
knowledge and the writer who must speak. Had he not been a  scholar he would
probably not have been such a  writer, and  if the scholar  had  not been an
artist he would certainly not have been such a scholar.

        CONTENTS

        PROLOGUE
     CHAPTER I. THE SCULPTOR'S APPRENTICE
     CHAPTER II. THE LAND OF FOAM
     CHAPTER III. THE SLAVE OF PHARAOH
     CHAPTER IV. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM
     CHAPTER V. THE GOLDEN PLAIN
     CHAPTER VI. THE ROAD OF DARKNESS
     CHAPTER VII. THE MIGHT OF THE FOREST
     CHAPTER VIII. THE SONS OF THE WIND

        PROLOGUE

     A fresh autumn breeze swept over the  ruffled surface of  the Neva.  In
the bright sunshine the tall, slim  spire on the Fortress  of Peter and Paul
was a streak of gold piercing  the blue  canopy of the sky. Below it  Palace
Bridge gracefully curved its broad back over rising  and falling  waves that
sparkled and splashed against the granite steps of the embankment.
     A young sailor sitting on a  bench glanced at  his watch, jumped up and
walked  off rapidly along the embankment  past the Admiralty  building whose
yellow walls reared their  crown of white columns high  into the transparent
autumn air. He walked quickly, paying no attention to the holiday atmosphere
that  surrounded him.  He strode along with a light and confident  step, the
exercise  warmed  him, and he pushed his sailor  cap on  to  the back of his
head. He crossed a garden whose  trees were aflame with autumn tints, passed
along one side of an open space and  for a moment stood before the  entrance
to  the  Hermitage  Museum  where  two  polished  granite giants supported a
massive balcony raised  over a humped pavement.  Scars made  by German bombs
were still to be seen on the giant  bodies. The young  man entered the heavy
doors, took off his greatcoat  and hurried towards  a white marble staircase
leading from the  semi-gloom of  the  vestibule to  a brightly-lit colonnade
surrounded by a row of marble statues.
     A  tall,  slim  girl, smiling  with  pleasure, came to  meet  him.  Her
attentive eyes, set wide apart, seemed to grow darker and warmer. The sailor
looked at the girl in some embarrassment but when  he saw  that she was just
putting her cloak-room check into her open bag he knew that he was not late.
His  face lit  up  and  he  confidently proposed starting their tour  of the
museum with the Gallery of Antiquities.
     The young people passed through the crowd of visitors, making their way
along rows  of columns supporting a brightly painted ceiling. After  looking
at the remains of vases  and  stone  slabs bearing  inscriptions in 'unknown
languages, dismal, black statues from ancient Egypt, sarcophagi, mummies and
other funereal  appurtenances that seemed even more depressing in the gloomy
galleries of  the lower  story, they  felt the need  for bright  colours and
sunshine. The youth and the girl hurried to  reach  the upper rooms. Passing
through two more rooms they made their way to a  side staircase that  led to
the upper  galleries  from a  small  room with tall,  narrow windows through
which gleamed  a pale  sky. A number of  conical  octagonal show-cases stood
between  the white columns but the small items  of  ancient art exhibited in
them did not seem to attract the attention of visitors.
     Suddenly the girl's eyes caught a patch  of marvellous blue-green light
in the third show-case; it was so brilliant that it seemed to be a source of
light in itself.  The girl led her  companion to the show-case. A flat stone
with round  edges lay on a sloping bed of silver-coloured velvet.  The stone
was extraordinarily pure and translucent, its  glowing blue-green colour was
unexpectedly  joyous, brilliant and  deep. On the  upper  surface, obviously
polished by the hand of man, cleanly-cut human figures, no bigger than one's
little finger, stood out in sharp relief.
     The  colour, brilliance  and light emanating from the transparent stone
formed a striking contrast to the dull  severity of the gallery and the pale
tones of the autumn sky.
     The girl heard her  companion heave a deep sigh and noticed in his eyes
a dreamy look that bespoke memories evoked by the stone.
     "That's just like the southern sea on a fine afternoon," said the young
sailor slowly; the absolute confidence of one who has seen  things resounded
in his words.
     "That's something I've never seen," replied the girl, "only I feel some
sort of depth in that stone, some sort of light and joy... . I can't exactly
explain... . Where do people find stones like this?"
     Neither  the  general heading over the four show-cases:  Antae Burials:
7th  Century,  Middle  Dnieper,  River Ros,  nor the label  on the show-case
itself: Grebenets  Burial Mound, Ancient Clan  Shrine-told  the young people
anything. The other objects that surrounded the wonderful stone were equally
incomprehensible:  broken  knives and spearheads so ugly and damaged by rust
as to be  unrecognisable, flat bowls, and some sort of pendants of blackened
bronze and silver in the form of a trapezium.
     "All this was dug up in Kiev Region,"  the young man hazarded a  guess,
"but I've  never heard  that  stones like that  are found  anywhere  in  the
Ukraine.  . . . Who could we ask?" And  the young  man looked round  the big
gallery.
     It was just their  bad luck  that  there was not a single museum  guide
anywhere within sight, nobody but the  woman caretaker on her chair near the
staircase.
     From  the staircase  came the sound of footsteps and a tall  man  in  a
carefully pressed  black suit came down into  the gallery. From the  way the
caretaker got up and  greeted  him with deference  the girl  guessed rightly
that  he was  a  man of importance in the museum.  She gave her  companion a
quiet nudge but he was already on his way to meet the newcomer;  standing to
attention, sailor-fashion, he began:
     "May I ask you something?"
     "Certainly. What is it you want  to know?" said the scientist, screwing
up his near-sighted eyes to examine the young couple.
     The sailor told him what had interested them. The scientist laughed.
     "You have a nose for good things, young man!" he exclaimed approvingly.
"You've lighted on one  of  the most interesting exhibits in our museum! Did
you examine the carving  closely?  No? Too small? And what do you think this
thing is for? Look!" He reached up and took hold of a wooden frame hinged to
the  upper edge  of  the  show-case and  lowered it  over  the glass. A  big
magnifying glass came into position exactly opposite the stone. He pressed a
switch and a bright light was thrown  on its surface.  More interested  than
ever  the young couple  peered  through the  magnifying glass. The  enlarged
carving seemed to  come to  life. On one edge of the transparent, blue-green
stone, fine but scanty lines traced the nude  figure of a girl standing with
her right hand  raised to her cheek. Rolls of thick,  curly  hair lay on her
delicately moulded  shoulders. The face had been carved with great attention
to detail.

     The remaining part of the stone was filled by three male figures, their
arms round each other's shoulders; these figures were drawn with far greater
skill than that of the girl.
     The shapely  muscular figures  had  been  caught  in motion.  There was
something  dynamic in the turn of the bodies, strong, urgent and at the same
time restrained. The big man in the centre, taller than those on either side
of him, had thrown his mighty arms round their shoulders.  The side figures,
armed  with  spears, stood  with  their heads bent  attentively.  The  poses
expressed the tense vigilance of warriors ready at any moment to repulse the
attack of an enemy.
     The three  tiny  figures were  the work  of a great artist.  The  basic
idea-fraternity,  friendship  and the  common  struggle-was  expressed  with
extraordinary force.
     The  charm  of  the  bright,  transparent  stone,  that served  both as
material  and  as  background,  greatly enhanced the beauty of the cameo.  A
limpid, warm  tint  that  seemed to  emanate  from  the depths of  the  cold
transparent  stone tinged the  bodies of  the  three embracing men with  the
golden joy of sunshine. . . .
     Under the figures and  on the smooth,  lower edge some incomprehensible
marks had been hurriedly and irregularly scratched.
     "Have you  had  a  good look? I can see you're  thrilled with it."  The
voice of  the archaeologist  gave the young people  a start.  "Good.  If you
like, I'll  tell  you something about that  stone? It is one of the  riddles
that we sometimes meet in the historical documents of the past. Listen while
I tell you just what the riddle is. That stone is a beryl,  in general not a
particularly rare mineral, although blue-green beryls of such pure water are
rare enough;  they are found in South Africa and nowhere else in  the world.
That's the first point. The carving on the stone is a cameo and ornaments of
this type  were greatly  admired in Greece when ancient  Hellenic art was at
its best. Now the  beryl is a very hard stone  and such a carving could only
have been made with a diamond which the Greek sculptors did not have. That's
the  second point.  Next,  take  the three  male figures-the central one  is
undoubtedly a Negro, the one  on  the right a Hellene, and that on the left,
one of the  Mediterranean peoples, probably a Cretan or an Etruscan. Lastly,
the  quality and  technique  indicate  that the work  belongs  to  the  most
flourishing period in the history of Greece; nevertheless there are a number
of features that show that it was made at a much earlier date. And then, the
spears are  of  a peculiar shape unknown in either Greece or Egypt. . . . So
you see there are several contradictions, a number of incompatible indicants
... but despite them the cameo exists, it's before your eyes. . . ."
     The archaeologist paused and then continued in the same abrupt way:
     "There are many more historical riddles. All of them tell us one thing:
how little we know. We have very little knowledge of how the ancient peoples
lived.  Amongst the  Scythian  works  of  art  in our  gold  repository, for
example, we have a gold buckle. It is two thousand six hundred years old and
carries the  image of  the extinct sabre-toothed tiger in all  its  details.
Yes, yes,  and  the palaeontologists  will  tell  you that the sabre-toothed
tiger became  extinct  three hundred thousand years  ago. . .  .  Ha! And in
Egyptian tombs you will  see frescoes on which every kind of animal found in
Egypt is  drawn with amazing accuracy. Amongst  them is an unknown animal of
tremendous  size that looks like a giant hyena-such an animal  is unknown in
Egypt,  in all Africa, in fact.  And then, in the Cairo Museum,  there is  a
statue of a girl  found in  the ruins of the city of Akhetaton, built in the
14th century B.C.-she is not an Egyptian and the work is not Egyptian, it is
like something from another world. My colleagues will  tell  you  that it is
con-ven-tion-al-ized,"  drawled  the  archaeologist with a touch of sarcasm.
"In connection with  this I always like to  recall another  story. On  those
same Egyptian  wall paintings you often  come across  a little fish. Just  a
tiny  fish  with  nothing special about it except  that it  is  always drawn
upside  down,  belly upwards. How  could the  Egyptians,  whose drawings are
always so  precise,  draw such  an unnatural fish. Explanations, of  course,
were  forthcoming: it was explained away by conventionalism, by religion, by
the  influence  of the  cult of  the god Amon. The  conclusions  were  quite
convincing and everybody was satisfied. Then it was discovered that there is
a  fish  in the  Nile today exactly like the  one in the paintings-it  swims
belly upwards! Very instructive. But I'm running away with myself! Good-bye,
you'll find the riddles of history interesting. . . ."
     "Just a  minute, Professor!" exclaimed the  girl. "Excuse me, but can't
you  explain this riddle  yourself.  . . . Tell us  what you think about the
stone. . . ." The girl stopped in embarrassment.
     The archaeologist smiled.
     "There's  no  getting away from  you. All  that I can tell you is sheer
guesswork,  that's all. One  thing  is certain: real art reflects life,  art
itself  is living and can  only rise to new heights in the  struggle against
the  old.  In  the  distant  past,  when  that  cameo was  carved,  slavery,
oppression  and  lawlessness reigned supreme.  Many  people  lived out their
lives in perpetual misery. There were slaves, however, who fought  for their
emancipation, and  oppressed  people  who  rose up  in  arms  against  their
oppressors.  And when one looks at this cameo one feels that the  friendship
of the  three warriors arose out of the fight  for liberty... . Perhaps they
fled from  'slavery to their own countries.  .  .  . I think  that cameo  is
further evidence  of  a struggle waged in a distant epoch and hidden from us
by time. It is  even possible that  the unknown artist also took part in the
fight.  . . . Yes,  he must certainly have  been  there,  otherwise his work
could  not  have been so  perfect.  And look  how  both  of you  fixed  your
attention on the cameo."
     The young man  and woman, overwhelmed by the  mass  of information they
had  been given, again pressed  close to the  magnifying  glass.  The  stone
seemed even more mysterious and incomprehensible to them.
     The pure, clear and deep colour of the sea ... and on it the figures of
three  men linked  in  fraternal embrace. The brilliant, scintillating stone
and  the  golden  tinge on the perfect, undraped bodies stood out  with even
greater force in the cold, dull gallery of the museum. . . . The young girl,
full of life and feminine charm, seemed to be standing on the seashore.
     With  a  sigh  the young  sailor straightened his aching back. The girl
still kept her  eyes on the stone. The shuffling of feet and the noise of an
approaching excursion group resounded down the corridors.  Only then did the
girl tear herself away  from  the case.  The  switch clicked, the  frame was
lifted and the blue-green crystal lay sparkling on its velvet bed.
     "We'll come here again,  won't  we?" asked the  sailor. "Of  course  we
shall," answered the girl. The young man took her gently by the arm and they
walked down the white marble staircase deep in thought.





     I. THE SCULPTOR'S APPRENTICE

     The flat  rock jutted far out into the  sea. It had retained the warmth
of  day  and  the youth sitting there was not in  the least disturbed by the
fresh  gusts  of  wind that found  their way  between the  cliffs.  The sea,
invisible in the darkness of night, splashed faintly against the foot of the
rock.
     The  young man stared  into the distance,  contemplating  the  point at
which the end of that  silver band called the Milky Way disappeared into the
darkness. He  was  watching the falling stars; a cluster of them had flashed
up to pierce the  sky  with  their fiery  needles, and  disappear behind the
horizon, fading like burning arrows falling into the water.  Again the fiery
arrows flashed  across the heavens, flying into the unknown,  to the  fabled
lands  that  lay  beyond  the  sea  on  the  very  borders  of  Oicumene.  (
Oicumene-the name given by the ancient Greeks to the  inhabited world  which
was surrounded by water, Oceanos.)
     "I will ask grandad where they fall," decided the youth and thought how
wonderful  it  would be to  fly like  that through  the sky direct  to  some
unknown destination.
     But then he was no longer  a youth--a few more days and he would attain
the age of a warrior. He would never be a warrior, however, but would become
a famous artist, a sculptor  of renown. His innate ability to see true forms
in  nature,  to  sense  and  remember  them,  made him  different  from most
people... Or  so his teacher, the sculptor Agenor, had  told him.  And so it
was, for there, where others passed indifferently by, he would halt in sheer
amazement, seeing that which he  could neither  comprehend nor  explain. The
countless manifestations of nature  charmed him by their constant mutations.
Later his  vision grew clearer and  he learned to  distinguish the beautiful
and  retain it in his memory. There was elusive beauty in all things, in the
curve of the crest of a running wave, in the locks of Thessa's hair when the
wind  played in them, in the stately columns of the  pine trunks and in  the
menacing rocks that rose proudly over the seashore. From the moment he first
became conscious of this he had made the creation of beautiful forms his aim
in  life.  He wanted  to show beauty  to  those  unable  to perceive it  for
themselves. And what could be more  beautiful than the  human body! To mould
it, however, was the most difficult of all the arts. . . .
     This told him why the  living features he retained  in his  memory were
not to be found in the statues of the gods  and heroes he saw all  round him
and which he was being taught  to make. Even the  most skilled  sculptors of
Oeniadae  (  Oeniadae-Pandion's birthplace,  at  the  south-western  tip  of
Northern Greece. The story  belongs to  the early  period in  Greek history,
before the classical era.) could not mould a convincing  image of the living
human body.
     The youth felt instinctively that certain features expressing joy, will
power,  wrath or  tenderness  were  crudely  exaggerated, and  to give  this
artificial  prominence to  certain forcefully  expressed features the artist
had sacrificed all  else. But  he must learn to depict life! Only then would
he become the greatest sculptor in his country and people  would acclaim him
and admire the things he would create. His  would be the  first works of art
to perpetuate the beauty of life in bronze or stone!
     The youth had been carried far away into the land of dreams when he was
aroused by a  bigger wave crashing  against the rock.  A few  drops of water
fell on  the  youth's  face.  He  shivered,  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled,
embarrassed, in the darkness.  Oh,  Gods! That dream was probably still  far
away in the future. . . . In the meantime his  teacher Agenor was constantly
upbraiding  him  for  his clumsy  work and  for some reason  or another  the
teacher was always right. . . . And there was his grandfather. . . . Grandad
showed  little interest in Pandion's progress as  an artist, he was training
his grandson  with a view to  making  him a  famous wrestler. As  though  an
artist needed strength! Still, it was a  good thing  grandad had trained him
like that, had made him more than ordinarily strong and hardy; Pandion liked
to show his  strength and prowess at the  evening contests in  the  village,
when Thessa, his teacher's daughter, was present,  and to note the  gleam of
approbation in the girl's eyes.

     With  burning cheeks the youth jumped to  his feet, every muscle in his
body tensed. He  thrust out his chest as if to challenge the wind and raised
his face to the stars; suddenly he laughed softly.
     He  walked  slowly to  the edge, peered into the  seemingly  bottomless
gloom,  gave a  loud  cry  and sprang  from the rock. The calm, silent night
immediately came to life.  Below the rock  there was  the  sea  whose waters
wrapped his  hot skin in a cooling embrace, sparkling with tiny dots of fire
around his arms and shoulders.
     The waves,  in  their play, forced the youth upwards, striving to throw
him back. As  he swam in the  darkness  he  estimated the undulations of the
waves  and confidently  threw  himself  at the  high  crests  that  appeared
suddenly before him. It seemed  to  Pandion that the sea was  bottomless and
boundless, that it merged with the dark sky in a single whole.
     A big wave  lifted the youth high above the  sea and he saw a red light
far away along the coast. An easy stroke and the wave obediently carried the
youth to the shore, towards a scarcely visible grey patch of sand.
     Shivering slightly  from the cold he again climbed on to the flat rock,
took up his coarse woollen cloak,  rolled it up, and  set off at a run along
the beach towards the light of the fire.
     The  aromatic smoke  of burning brushwood  curled through the  adjacent
thickets. The feeble  light of the  flames  lit  up the  wall of a small hut
built of rough-hewn stones with the eaves of a thatched roof projecting over
it. The  wide spreading branches of a  single  plane-tree protected  the hut
from inclement weather. An old  man in a grey cloak sat by the fire, deep in
thought.  On hearing  the  approaching footsteps he turned towards  them his
smiling wrinkled face the tan  of which showed darker in the frame of a grey
curling beard.  "Where have you  been so long, Pandion?"  asked the old  man
reproachfully. "I've been back a long time and wanted to talk to you."
     "I  didn't  think you'd come so  soon," answered  the youth. "I went to
bathe. And now I'm ready to  listen to you all night,  if you like." The old
man shook his head in refusal. "No, the talk will be a long one and you have
to be up early  in the morning. I  want to give you a trial tomorrow and you
will need all your strength. Here are some fresh cakes-I brought a new stock
of  them with me-and  here is the honey.  It's a festive supper tonight: you
may eat as becomes a warrior-little and without greed."
     The young  man contentedly broke a cake  and  dipped the white,  broken
edge into an earthen pot of honey.  As  he ate he kept his eyes fixed on his
grandfather who sat silently watching  his grandson with a  fond  look.  The
eyes of both, the old  man and the  youth,  were  alike  and  unusual;  they
gleamed golden like the concentrated light of a sun-ray. There was a popular
belief that people with such eyes were descended from the  earthly lovers of
the "Son of the Heights," Hyperion, the sun god.
     "I thought about you  after you'd gone today, Grandad," said the youth.
"Why  is it that other bards live in good houses and eat their fill although
they know  nothing but their songs? But you,  Grandad, who know so much, who
make such wonderful songs, have to toil on the sea. The boat's too heavy for
you now and I'm your only helper. We haven't got a single slave."
     The old man smiled and placed his gnarled hand on Pandion's curly head.
     "That's what I wanted to  talk to  you about tomorrow. Only  one  thing
will I say tonight: many different songs may be  composed about the gods and
about people. If you  are honest with yourself, if  your eyes are open, your
songs will  not sound pleasant to  the lordly owners of  the  land  and  the
warrior chiefs. And you will  have neither rich gifts, nor slaves, nor fame,
you will not be known in the great houses and you will not gain a livelihood
by your  songs. . .  .  Time for  bed,"  the  old man  broke off. "Look, the
Chariot of  the Night (  Chariot of the Night-the Great  Bear constellation.
Cf.  Charles's Wain.-Tr.)  is  already  turning to  the  other  side  of the
heavens. Its  black horses travel fast and a man who wants to be strong must
rest. Come on."  And the old man moved off towards the narrow doorway of his
miserable hut.


     The  old man  awakened Pandion early next  morning. The cold autumn was
drawing near; the sky was overcast with heavy clouds, a cutting wind rustled
in  the dry reeds  and in the few remaining leaves of the plane-tree.  Under
his  grandfather's  stern  and  exacting  guidance Pandion went through  his
gymnastic exercises. Thousands and thousands  of times, from  early boyhood,
he had repeated  them every day  at sunrise  and  sunset, but  today grandad
selected the most difficult exercises and increased their number.
     Pandion hurled a heavy javelin, threw stones and jumped  over obstacles
with a sack of sand on his shoulders. At last grandad fastened a heavy piece
of walnut  wood to his left hand, placed a gnarled wooden  club in his right
and  tied  a  piece  of a broken  stone  vase  to  his head. Restraining his
laughter  for fear of wasting his  breath, Pandion awaited  a  sign from his
grandfather and then set out  at a  run northwards, where the  path from the
littoral  ran  round a  steep,  stony slope. He raced  along the  path  like
lightning, scrambled  up to the first ledge of a cliff, turned and came down
even faster. The old man  met his grandson at the  hut, relieved  him of his
burden and then pressed his cheek to the lad's face to determine the  degree
of tiredness from the rate of his breathing.
     After a few seconds the youth said:
     "I could run there and back many times before I would ask for a rest."
     "Yes, I think you could,"  answered  the old  man  slowly, and  proudly
straightened  his  back. "You're fit  to be a warrior, capable  of  fighting
tirelessly in battle and carrying  heavy bronze accoutrements. My  son, your
father,  gave you health and strength, I have developed them in you and made
you  bold and  enduring." The old man cast a glance over the youth's figure,
allowing his eyes to  rest  on his broad, powerful  chest and  on the mighty
muscles that rippled  under  a skin without  a single blemish. "I'm the only
relative  you  have,"  he continued,  "and I'm old  and weak; we've  neither
wealth nor  servants and our entire phralry (  Phratry- a  union  of several
clans Tribes  grew out of  several, phratries when the gentile social system
still predominated.)consists  of  three villages on a stony  seashore. . . .
The world  is great and there  are many dangers besetting a  lonely man. The
greatest  of them  is the loss of  liberty, the  possibility  of being taken
captive and  sent  to slavery. This is why I have devoted so  much time  and
effort to making a warrior of you, a man of  courage who is competent in all
matters of war. Now  you are free  to serve  your  people. Come, let us make
sacrifice  to Hyperion,  our  patron,  in  honour  of  your attaining  man's
estate."
     Grandfather and  grandson made their way along  the  patches  of  sedge
grass and reeds towards a narrow spit  of land that reached far out into the
sea like a long wall.
     Two thick oaks  with  wide spreading  branches  grew  at the end of the
spit.  Between  them  stood an altar built  of rude limestone blocks  behind
which was a blackened  wooden post, crudely  carved  in the shape of a human
figure. This was an ancient temple  dedicated to the  local deity, the River
Achelous, which joined the sea there.

     The  mouth  of the  river  was  hidden  in  the green reeds  and bushes
swarming with migratory birds from the north.
     Before them  stretched the mist-covered sea.  Waves raced with a  crash
against  the point of a spit  resembling  the neck of  some gigantic  animal
holding its head under water.
     The solemn roar  of the  waves,  the shrill  cries  of  the  birds, the
whistling of the wind in the reeds and the rustling  foliage of the oaks-all
these sounds merged into an uneasy, rumbling melody.
     The old man lit a fire on the rude altar and threw a piece of meat  and
a  cake into the flames. When the sacrifice had been made,  the  old man led
Pandion to a big stone at the foot of a steep mossy cliff and  bade him push
the  stone  aside.  The  youth  did  so  with  ease and then,  following his
grandfather's instructions, thrust his hand into a deep crevice between  two
strata of limestone. There was  a  rattle  of metal and Pandion  drew out  a
bronze sword, a  helmet and a wide belt of square copper  plates serving  as
armour for the lower  part of the  body- all of them dulled  with patches of
verdigris.
     "These  are  the  arms  of  your  father,  who  died  young,"  said the
grandfather in a low voice. "A shield and bow you must acquire yourself."
     The  youth  bent excitedly over the accoutrements and  began  carefully
cleaning off the verdigris.
     The old man  sat down on the stone, leaned  his back  against the cliff
and fell to watching his grandson and trying to hide his sorrow from him.
     Pandion left his armour and in a burst  of ecstasy threw himself on the
old man and embraced him. The old man placed an arm round the youth, feeling
the  knots of his  mighty  muscles. It seemed  to the  grandfather  that his
long-dead  son was  reborn  in  this  youthful  body,  designed to  overcome
obstacles.
     The  old  man turned the  youth's face towards  himself and stared long
into the frank, golden eyes.
     "Now you have to decide, Pandion: will you go  at once to the  chief of
our  phratry  to  serve  him  as a  warrior,  or  will  you  remain Agenor's
apprentice?"
     "I  shall remain  with  Agenor," answered Pandion  without  giving  the
matter a second thought. "If  I  go now to the  chief in the village I shall
have to stay there to live and eat in the company of the men and you will be
left here alone. I don't want to be parted from you and shall stay  and help
you."
     "No, Pandion, we must  part company," said the old man, firmly but with
an effort.
     The youth jumped back in astonishment but the old man's hand held him.
     "I have fulfilled  the promise I made  my son, your  father,  Pandion,"
continued the old man. "Now you must,  make your own way in  life.  You must
start on your  life's road free,  not burdened by the care of a helpless old
man. I  am leaving our  Oeniadae for  fertile Elis, where my daughters  live
with  their  husbands. When you become a famous sculptor you will be able to
find me. . . ."
     The  youth's heated protests only  made the old  man  shake  his  head.
Pandion had  said many tender,  imploring and  discontented words  before he
finally  realized that the old  man had for  years carried  in his mind this
unalterable decision and that his experience of life made him implacable.
     With  a  sad and heavy  heart the youth  spent the whole  day with  his
grandfather helping him prepare for his journey.
     In the evening  they sat down together  on  an upturned, newly  caulked
boat, and the grandfather got out a lyre that had seen much in its time. The
strong, youthful voice of  the aged  bard carried along the beach, dying out
in the distance.
     He sang a song filled with sadness, that  recalled  the regular beating
of the waves against the shore.
     At Pandion's request the  old man sang him  the lays of  the  origin of
their race, and about neighbouring lands and peoples.
     Aware of the fact that he was hearing the words for  the last time, the
youth tried  to catch every single one of them,  striving  to remember songs
that from earliest childhood had been closely bound up with the image of his
grandfather. Pandion pictured in  his mind the ancient heroes who had united
the tribes.
     The  old bard sang of the stern beauties of his  native land where  all
things in nature are gods incarnate; he sang of the  greatness of  those who
loved life and conquered  nature, instead  of hiding from her in the temples
and turning their backs on the present day.
     And the youth's heart beat furiously-it  was as though he 'stood at the
beginning of roads leading into the unknown distance where every turn opened
up new and unexpected vistas.


     That morning it seemed that the hot summer had returned. The clear blue
of  the  sky breathed  heat, the  still air was filled with the song of  the
grasshoppers  and  the  white  cliffs  and  boulders  gave  off  a  dazzling
reflection of the sun. The sea had turned transparent and rippled idly along
the shore, for all the world like old wine in a giant cup.
     When his grandfather's boat  was lost  to sight in the distance  sorrow
gripped Pandion's breast like an iron  band. He fell to the ground,  resting
his  head  on  his  crossed  arms.  He felt himself a  small boy,  alone and
abandoned, who  with the departure of  his grandfather  had lost part of his
own heart. Tears poured over Pandion's arms, but these were not the tears of
a child, they came in huge, separate drops that brought no relief.
     His dreams of  great deeds  had receded far into the  background. There
was nothing that could console him, he wanted to stay with his grandfather.
     Slowly but surely came the realization  that the  loss was irreparable,
and Pandion made an effort to set his feelings under control. Ashamed of his
tears, he bit his lip, raised his head  and gazed  for a long  time into the
distant sea,  until his confused thoughts again  began  to flow smoothly and
consistently. He rose to his feet,  his eyes swept over the sun-warmed shore
and the hut under the plane-tree,  and again he was overcome by  unutterable
sorrow.  He  realized that the  carefree days of his  youth were past, never
again to return with their semi-childish dreams.
     Pandion plodded his way slowly to the hut. Here he buckled on his sword
and  wrapped  his other  possessions in his  cloak.  He  fastened  the  door
securely so that storms might not enter the  hut and went off along a  stony
path swept clean by the sea winds,  the harsh  dry grass swishing mournfully
under his feet.  The path led to a hill covered with dark green bushes whose
sun-warmed  leaves gave off the strong odour of pressed olives.  At the foot
of  the hill  the path branched into two-the  right-hand path  leading  to a
group of fishermen's huts  on the seashore, the  other continuing along  the
river-bank to the town. Pandion took the left-hand path and passed the hill;
his feet sank into hot white dust and the singing of myriads of grasshoppers
drowned the  noise of the  sea. The stony slope of the hill disappeared in a
wealth of trees  where its foot reached the river. The long narrow leaves of
the oleanders and the heavy green of the bay-trees  were overshadowed by the
dense foliage of huge walnut-trees, the whole merging into  a  curling  mass
that  seemed  almost  black  against  the  white  background  of  limestone.
Pandion's path  led him  through the  forest  shade  and  after  a few turns
brought  him  to  an' open glade on  which  stood a number  of small  houses
clustered at the  foot of the gently sloping terraces of  the vineyards. The
youth quickened his pace  and  hastened  towards  a low, white house visible
behind the angular trunks of an olive  grove. He  entered an open shed and a
middle-aged, black-bearded man of medium height  rose to meet  him; this was
Agenor, the master sculptor.
     "So  you've  come at last," exclaimed the sculptor  in some elation. "I
was thinking of sending for you. . . . And what's this?" Agenor noticed that
Pandion was armed. "Let me embrace you, my boy. Thessa, Thessa!" he shouted,
"come and look at our warrior!"
     Pandion turned quickly round. Out of the inner door peeped  a girl in a
dark  red himation thrown carelessly  over  a chiton (Himation-woman's outer
garment consisting  of  a rectangular  piece of material in the  form  of  a
shawl; it was  usually thrown over the  shoulder but in bad weather could be
used to cover  the head. The  chiton is  a long, sleeveless garment of  thin
material, worn without the himation in the house.) of fine, but faded,  pale
blue material. A  smile of pleasure revealed her lovely teeth but an instant
later the smile vanished, the girl frowned and gave Pandion a cold stare.
     "See, Thessa's angry with you; for two whole days you haven't been able
to find time to come here and tell us  you were not going to work," said the
sculptor, reproachfully.
     The  youth  stood  silent  with drooping  head  and  his  eyes  shifted
stealthily from the girl to his master.
     "What's wrong with you,  boy? No,  not  boy but warrior,"  said Agenor.
"Why this sadness and what's that bundle you have brought with you?"
     Hesitantly, incoherently, again afflicted by the sorrow  of parting, he
told of his grandfather's departure.

     Agenor's wife, the mother of Thessa, approached them. The sculptor laid
his  hands  on the youth's shoulders. "You have long since earned  our love,
Pandion. I  am  glad you have chosen the life of an artist  in preference to
that of a warrior. The  fighting  will come, you won't be able to avoid  it,
but in the meantime you have much to achieve by hard, persevering labour and
meditation."
     Pandion,  following  the custom, bowed  low to  Agenor's wife  and  she
covered his head with the  corner of her mantle and then pressed him  fondly
to her bosom.
     The  girl  gave  a  little  shout  of  joy  and  then,  with  signs  of
embarrassment, disappeared into the house, followed by her father's smile.
     Agenor sat down by  the  entrance to his workshop for a  quiet  rest. A
grove of  ancient  olive-trees grew  right  outside  the house;  their huge,
angular trunks  were intertwined  in the  most fantastic  manner that to the
contemplative eye  of  the  artist resembled people and animals.  One of the
trees was like a kneeling giant  whose arms were held wide apart  above  his
head. The rugged irregularities of  another tree-trunk  formed an ugly body,
distorted  by suffering.  It seemed as though all the  trees were bent under
the  effort  to raise upward  the heavy  weight of their  countless branches
covered with tiny silvery leaves.
     The figure of a  woman  in  a  bright  blue holiday  himation with gold
ornaments  slipped out of  the other side of the house. As  she  disappeared
behind the slope of the  hill the sculptor recognized his daughter. Treading
softly  with  her bare  feet, Agenor's wife  came  and sat down  beside  her
husband.
     "Thessa has gone to Pandion in the pine grove again," said the sculptor
and then added: "The children think we don't know their little secret!"
     His wife laughed gaily but turned suddenly serious as she asked: -
     "What do you think of Pandion now that he's been with us a year?"
     "I  like him  more  than ever," answered Agenor and his wife nodded her
head in agreeme