The Songs of the Kings by Barry Unsworth Page B

it might have been a good idea to insert a reference to the wind that detains us here in that Song you have just been reciting. There was a good occasion when you brought Zeus into it. You know, the god takes his pleasure in a shower of gold, shows his displeasure in this wind that is so bitter to us, sent to punish our offense, an offense, you might have hinted, that involves someone high up in the chain of command.”
    The Singer chewed for some moments more on his grapes and bread. He enjoyed the blended taste when he put both into his mouth together. Chewing took time because a number of his teeth had gone. He did not like this voice. “The wind doesn’t belong in the Song of Perseus,” he said.
    â€œDoesn’t belong? I am astonished to hear you say that. Have you never heard of flexibility? You of all people should know that anything can go into a Song, it just depends on the way you deliver it.”
    The Singer wanted the rest of his bread and grapes, but he could not eat them while a conversation was going on; and this, combined with his dislike and fear of the voice, frayed his temper, took the guard from his tongue. “Do you think a Song is like a political speech or a funny story?” he said. “Do you think you can shovel anything into it to suit the purposes of the moment? A Song has the form that belongs to it and that is also the soul of the Song. Anything that touches the soul of the Song must depend on the Singer and the gods that speak through him.”
    â€œIs that so? Well, now, I’ll tell
you
something,” Odysseus said, still aiming at the Singer’s ear. “I didn’t come here to talk about art and soul and all that stuff. As far as that’s concerned, I may be a philistine, but I know what I like. I’m going to have someone in that audience tomorrow morning and he’s going to report back to me. I don’t care whether you wrap it up in something else or tell it as a separate story, but if you know what is good for you, you’d better make sure this message about the wind goes over loud and clear, with briefer repetitions in subsequent sessions to reinforce the point. It must be noised abroad, made common knowledge, disseminated on a large scale, what’s the word I’m looking for?”
    â€œI haven’t the faintest idea,” the Singer said with sudden weariness. “I have enough to do to find my own words.” And with this he lifted a compound wodge of bread and grapes to his mouth.

6.
    Calchas slept heavily by the dead fire and woke to the warmth of the sun on his face and the sighing sound of the wind. The sea below was covered with low ridges, white along the crests. The hills beyond the camp were half lost in the morning haze. He felt no sensation but hunger. He shared with Poimenos the bread and cheese they had brought, leaving some aside for the keeper. They did not speak much but he felt the boy’s eyes on him; and when he returned this gaze he did not see inquiry or curiosity on the other’s face but an expression brooding and grave, which he could not remember seeing before. It was as if years had been added to the boy in the course of this one night. He had slept badly, he said. Perhaps it was only this. Or perhaps my eyes wither what they look on, the priest thought.
    The keeper held out thin brown arms for the food and bowed in thanks, but she did not eat before them and it was clear that she was waiting for them to be gone. They descended by the same path and waited near the shore, in the thin shade of a pine tree, for the boatman to come for them. Sure enough, as the sun rose overhead, they saw him plying across. As they waded through the surf and climbed into the boat, he made the same gestures of exaggerated toil. And Calchas felt a blankness in his mind, as if some power moved the man’s limbs in exact repetition, so as to cancel all the time that had elapsed since he left them there,