II

 

 

 

SOUTH ULFLAND FACED ON THE SEA FROM YS IN THE SOUTH to Suarach in the north: a succession of shingle beaches and rocky headlands along a coast for the most part barren and bleak. The three best harbors were at Ys and Suarach and at Oäldes, between the two. Elsewhere harbors, good or bad, were infrequent, and often no more than coves enclosed by the hook of a headland.

Twenty miles south of Oäldes, a line of crags entered the ocean and with the help of a stone breakwater, gave shelter to several dozen fishing boats. Around the harbor huddled the village Mynault: a clutch of narrow stone houses, two taverns and a market-place.

In one of the houses lived the fisherman Sarles, a man black-haired and stocky, with heavy hips and a small round paunch. His face, which was round, pale and moony, showed a constant frown of puzzlement, as if he found life and logic always at odds.

The bloom of Sarles’ youth was gone forever, but Sarles had little to show for his years of more or less diligent toil. Sarles blamed bad luck, although if his spouse Liba were to be believed, indolence was by far the larger factor.

Sarles kept his boat the Preval drawn up on the shingle directly in front of his house, which made for convenience. He had inherited the Preval from his father, and the craft was now old and worn, with every seam leaking and every joint working. Sarles well knew the deficiencies of the Preval and sailed it out upon the sea only when the weather was fine.

Liba, like Sarles, was somewhat portly. Though older than Sarles, she commanded far more energy and often asked him: “Why are you not out fishing today, like the other men?”

Sarles’ reply might be: “The wind is sure to pipe up later this afternoon; the dead-eyes on the port shrouds simply cannot take so much strain.”

“Then why not replace the dead-eyes? You have nothing better to do.”

“Bah, woman, you understand nothing of boats. The weakest part always breaks first. If I fixed the dead-eyes, then the shrouds might part, or a real blow might push the mast-step right through the bottom of the boat.”

“In that case, replace the shrouds, then repair the strakes.”

“Easier said than done! It would be a waste of time and I would be throwing good money after bad.”

“But you waste much time at the tavern where you also throw away good money, and by the handfuls.”

“Woman, enough! Would you deny me my single relaxation?”

“Indeed I would! Everyone else is out on the water while you sit in the sun catching flies. Your cousin Junt left the harbor before dawn to make sure of his mackerel! Why did you not do the same?”

“Junt does not suffer miseries of the back as I do,” muttered Sarles. “Also he sails the Lirlou, which is a fine new boat.”

“It is the fisherman who catches fish, not the boat. Junt brings in six times the catch you do.”

“Only because his son Tamas fishes beside him.”

“Which means that each out-fishes you three times over.”

Sarles cried out in anger: “Woman, when will you learn to curb your tongue? I would be off to the tavern this instant had I one coin to rub against another.”

“Why not use the leisure to repair the Preval?”

Sarles threw his hands in the air and went down to the beach where he assessed the deficiencies of his craft. With nothing better to do, he carved a new dead-eye for his shrouds. Cordage was too dear for his pocket, so he performed a set of make-shift splices, which strengthened the shrouds but made an unsightly display.

And so it went. Sarles gave the Preval only what maintenance was needed to keep it afloat, and sallied out among the reefs and rocks only when conditions were optimum, which was not often.

One day even Sarles became alarmed. With a soft breeze blowing on-shore, he rowed from the harbor, hoisted his sprit-sail, set up the back-stay, adjusted the sheets and bowled nicely across the swells and out toward the reefs, where the fish were most plentiful . . . Peculiar! thought Sarles. Why did his back-stay sag when he had only just set it up taut? Making an investigation, he discovered a daunting fact: the stern-post to which the stay was attached had become so rotten from age and attacks of the worm that it was about to break loose to the tension of the back-stay, thereby causing a great disaster.

Sarles rolled up his eyes and gritted his teeth in annoyance. Now, without fail or delay, he must make a whole set of tedious repairs, and he could expect neither leisure nor wine-bibbing until the repairs were done. To finance the repairs he might even be forced to beg a place aboard the Lirlou, which again was most tiresome, since it meant that he would be forced to work Junt’s hours.

For the nonce, he shifted the back-stay to one of the stern-cleats, which, in mild weather such as that of today, would suffice.

Sarles fished for two hours, during which time he caught a single flounder. When he cleaned the fish, its belly fell open and out rolled a magnificent green pearl, of a quality far beyond Sarles’ experience. Marvelling at his good fortune, he again threw out his lines but now the breeze began to freshen, and concerned with the state of his make-shift back-stay, Sarles hoisted anchor, raised his sail and turned his bow toward Mynault, and as he sailed he gloated upon the beautiful green pearl, the very touch of which sent shivers of delight along his nerves.

Once more in the harbor, Sarles beached his boat and set out for home, only to meet his cousin Junt.

“What?” cried Junt. “Back so soon from your work? It is not yet noon! What have you caught? A single flounder? Sarles, you will die in penury if you do not take yourself in hand! Truly you should give the Preval a good work-over and then fish with zeal, so that you may do something for yourself and your old age.”

Nettled by the criticism, Sarles retorted: “What of you? Why are you not out in your fine Lirlou? Do you fear a bit of wind?”

“Not at all! I would fish and gladly, wind or no wind, but for caulking and fresh pitch done to Lirlou’s seams.”

As a rule Sarles was neither clever, spiteful, nor mischievous, his worst vice being sloth and a surly obstinacy in the face of chiding from his spouse. But now, impelled by a sudden tingle of crafty malice, he said: “Well then, if zeal rives you so urgently, there is the Preval; sail out to the reef and fish until you have had enough.”

Junt gave a derisive grunt. “It is a sad comedown for me after working my fine Lirlou! Still, I believe that I will take you at your word. It is odd, but I cannot sleep well unless I have rousted up a good catch of fish from the deep.”

“I wish you good luck,” said Sarles and continued along the jetty. The wind, so he noted, had shifted and now blew from the north.

At the market Sarles sold his flounder for a decent price, then paused to reflect. He pulled the pearl from his pocket and considered it anew: a beautiful thing, though the green luster was unusual and even—it must be admitted—a trifle unsettling.

Sarles grinned a curious mindless grin and tucked the pearl back into his pocket. He marched across the square to the tavern, where he poured a good half-pint of wine down his throat. The first called for another, and as Sarles started on his second half-pint he was accosted by one of his cronies, a certain Juliam, who asked: “How goes the world? No fishing today?”

“I am not up to it today, owing to my sore back. Also, Junt decided that he wished to borrow Preval and I told him ‘Go to it; fish all night, if you are so frantic in your zeal!’ So off went Junt in my good old Preval.”

“Ah well, that was generous of you!”

“Why not? After all, he is my cousin and blood is thicker than water.”

“True.”

Sarles finished his wine and strolled out to the end of the jetty. He scanned the sea with care but neither to the north, the west, nor the south could he glimpse the patched yellow sail of the Preval.

He turned away and went back along the jetty. Down on the shingle other fishermen were beaching their boats. Sarles went down and made inquiries in regard to Junt. “From the kindness of my heart I let him take out my Preval, though I warned him that the wind was rising and seemed to be veering to the north.”

“He was out by Scratch Bottom an hour ago,” said one of the fishermen. “Junt will fish while honest men drink wine!”

Sarles scanned the sea. “Possibly true, but I do not see him now. The wind is swinging about and he will be in trouble if he does not head for the harbor soon.”

“Never fear for an old sea-dog like Junt, in a stout boat such as the Lirlou,” said a fisherman who had just come up.

The first fisherman gave a raucous laugh. “But he is aboard the Preval!”

“Aha. That is something else again. Sarles, you would be wise to make repairs.”

“Yes, yes,” muttered Sarles. “In due course. I can neither walk on water nor blow gold coins out of my nose.”

Sunset came and still Junt failed to return to Mynault harbor. Sarles finally reported the circumstances to Liba. “Today my back was poorly, and I could not fish over-long. From motives of generosity I allowed Junt the use of my boat. He has not yet returned and I fear that he has been blown off down the coast, or even has wrecked the Preval. I suppose this should be a lesson for me.”

Liba stared. “For you? What of Junt and his family?”

“I am concerned on both counts. That goes without saying. However, I have not told you yet of my amazing good luck.”

“Indeed? Your back is well so that finally you can work? Or you have lost your taste for wine?”

“Woman, control your tongue or you will feel the weight of my hand! I am bored with acrid jokes.”

“Well then, what is your luck?”

Sarles displayed the pearl. “What do you think of that?”

Liba looked down at the gem. “Hmm. Curious. I have never heard of a green pearl. Are you sure it is genuine?”

“Of course! Do you take me for a fool? It is worth a goodly sum.”

Liba turned away. “It gives me the chills.”

“Is not that just like a woman? Where is my supper? What! Gruel? Why cannot you cook a tasty pot of soup, like other women?”

“I should work miracles, when the cupboard is bare? If you caught more fish and drank less wine we would eat better.”

“Bah! From now on all will be different.”

During the night Sarles was troubled by unsettling dreams. Faces peered at him through swirls of mist, then spoke gravely aside to each other. Try as he might he could understand none of the comments. A few of the faces seemed familiar, but Sarles could put no names to them.

In the morning Junt still had not returned in the Preval. By virtue of established custom, Sarles therefore became privileged to fish from the fine new Lirlou. Tamas, Junt’s son, wished also to go out aboard the Lirlou but this Sarles would not allow. “I prefer to fish by myself.”

Tamas made a hot protest. “That is not reasonable! I must protect my family’s interests!”

Sarles raised his finger high. “Not so fast! Are you forgetting that I also have interests? The Lirlou becomes my own until Junt returns me my Preval safe and sound. If you want to fish, you must make other arrangements.”

Sarles sailed the Lirlou out to the fishing grounds, rejoicing in the strength of the craft and the convenience of the gear. Today his luck was unusually good; fish fairly seized at his lines and the baskets in the hold became filled to the brim, and Sarles sailed back to Mynault congratulating himself. Tonight he would eat good soup or even a roast fowl.

Two months passed, during which Sarles profited from fine catches, while nothing seemed to go right for Tamas. One evening Tamas went to the house of Sarles, hoping to make some sort of adjustment in a situation which no one in Mynault considered totally fair, though all agreed that Sarles had acted only within his rights.

Tamas found Liba alone, sitting by the hearth spinning thread. Tamas came to the middle of the room and looked all around. “Where is Sarles?”

“At the tavern, or so I would expect, pouring his gut full of wine.” Liba spoke in a flat voice which held a metallic overtone. She glanced at Tamas over her shoulder, then returned to her spindle. “Whatever you want you will not get. He is suddenly a man of property, and struts around like a grandee.”

“Still, we must have an understanding!” declared Tamas. “He lost his rotten hulk and gained the Lirlou, at the expense of myself, my mother and my sisters. We have lost everything through no fault of our own. We ask only that Sarles deal fairly with us, and give us our share.”

Liba moved her shoulders in a stony shrug. “It is useless to talk to me. I can do nothing with him. He is a different man since he brought home his green pearl.” She raised her eyes to the mantel, where the pearl rested in a saucer.

Tamas went to look at the gem. He took it up and hefted it in his fingers, then whistled through his teeth. “This is a valuable object! It would buy another Lirlou! It would make me rich!”

Liba glanced at him in surprise. Was this the voice of Tamas, everywhere considered the very soul of rectitude? The green pearl seemed to corrupt with greed and selfishness all those who touched it! She turned back to her spinning. “Tell me nothing; what I do not know I can not prevent. I abhor the thing; it gazes at me like an evil eye.”

Tamas uttered a queer high-pitched chuckle: so odd that Liba glanced at him sidelong in surprise.

“Just so!” said Tamas. “It is a time for a righting of wrongs! If Sarles complains, let him come to me!” With the pearl in his hand, he ran from the house. Liba sighed and returned to her spinning, with a heavy lump of apprehension in her chest.

An hour passed with no sound but the sough of the wind in the chimney and an occasional sputter of the fire. Then came the lurching thud of Sarles’ steps as he staggered home from the tavern. He thrust the door wide, stood a moment in the opening, his face round as a plate under the untidy ledges of his black hair. His eyes darted here and there and halted on the saucer; he went to look and found the saucer empty. He uttered a cry of anguish. “Where is the pearl, the lovely green pearl?”

Liba spoke in her even voice. “Tamas came to talk with you. Since you were not here he took the pearl.”

Sarles gave a howl of rage. “Why did you not stop him?”

“It is none of my affair. You must settle the matter with Tamas.”

Sarles moaned in fury. “You could have stayed him; you gave him the pearl!” He lurched at her with clubbed fists; she raised the spindle and thrust it into his left eye.

Sarles clapped his hand to the bloody socket, while Liba stood back, awed by the magnitude of her deed.

Sarles looked at her with his right eye, and stepped slowly forward. Liba, groping behind her, found a broom of tied withes which she lifted and held ready. Sarles came forward one step at a time. Never taking his eye from Liba, he bent and picked up a short-handled axe. Liba screamed and thrust the broom into Sarles’ face, then ran for the door. Sarles seized her hair and, pulling her back, did gruesome work with the axe.

Neighbors had been attracted by the screams. Men seized Sarles and took him to the square. The town elders were summoned from their beds and came blinking out to do justice by the light of lanterns.

The crime was manifest; the murderer was known, and there was nothing to be gained by delay. Sentence was passed; Sarles was marched to the hostler’s barn and hanged from the hay derrick, while the village population stared in wonder to see their neighbor kick and jerk by lantern light.