Chapter XXII

                      Who is Portunus?


About half-way to Swan, Master Nathaniel, having tethered
his horse to a tree, was reclining drowsily under the shade
of another.  It was midday, and the further west he rode the
warmer it grew; it was rather as if he were riding backward
through the months.
   Suddenly he was aroused by a dry little laugh, and
looking round, he saw crouching beside him, an odd-looking
old man, with very bright eyes.
   "By my Great-aunt's rump, and who may *you* be?" enquired
Master Nathaniel testily.
   The old man shut his eyes, gulped several times, and
replied:
   
         "Who are you?  Who is me?
          Answer my riddle and come and see."
   
and then he stamped impatiently, as if that had not been
what he had wished to say.
   "Some cracked old rustic, I suppose," thought Master
Nathaniel, and closed his eyes; in the hopes that when the
old fellow saw he was not inclined for conversation he would
go away.
   But the unwelcome visitor continued to crouch beside him,
now and then giving him little jogs in the elbow, which was
very irritating when one happened to be hot and tired and
longing for forty winks.
   "What are you doing?" cried Master Nathaniel irritably.
   
         "I milk blue ewes; I reap red flowers,
          I weave the story of dead hours,"
   
answered the old man.
   "Oh, do you?  Well, I wish you'd go now, this moment, and
milk your red ewes... I want to go to sleep," and he pulled
his hat further down over his eyes and pretended to snore.
   But suddenly he sprang to his feet with a yap of pain. 
The old man had prodded him in his belly, and was standing
looking at him out of his startlingly bright eyes, with his
head slightly on one side.
   "Don't you try that on, old fellow!" cried Master
Nathaniel angrily.  "You're a nuisance, that's what you
are.  Why can't you leave me alone?" 
   The old man pointed eagerly at the tree, making little
inarticulate sounds; it was as if a squirrel or a bird had
been charged with some message that they could not deliver.
   Then he crept up to him, put his mouth to his ear, and
whispered, "What is it that's a tree, and yet not a tree, a
man and yet not a man, who is dumb and yet can tell secrets,
who has no arms and yet can strike?"
   Then he stepped back a few paces as if he wished to
observe the impression his words had produced, and stood
rubbing his hands and cackling gleefully.
   "I suppose I must humour him," thought Master Nathaniel;
so he said good-naturedly, "Well, and what's the answer to
your riddle, eh?"
   But the old man seemed to have lost the power of
articulate speech, and could only reiterate eagerly, "Dig...
dig... dig."
   "`Dig, dig, dig.'... So that's the answer, is it?  Well,
I'm afraid I can't stay here the whole afternoon trying to
guess your riddles.  If you've got anything to tell me,
can't you say it any plainer?"
   Suddenly he remembered the old superstition that when the
Silent People returned to Dorimare they could only speak in
riddles and snatches of rhyme.  He looked at the old man
searchingly.  "Who are you?" he said.
   But the answer was the same as before.  "Dig... dig...
dig."
   "Try again.  Perhaps after a bit the words will come more
easily," said Master Nathaniel.  "You are trying to tell me
your name."
   The old man shut his eyes tight, took a long breath, and,
evidently making a tremendous effort, brought out very
slowly, "Seize -- your -- op-por-tun-us.  Dig... dig. 
Por-tun-us is my name."
   "Well, you've got it out at last.  So your name is
Portunus, is it?"
   But the old man stamped his foot impatiently.  "Hand!
hand!" he cried.
   "Is it that you want to shake hands with me, old fellow?"
asked Master Nathaniel.
   But the old man shook his head peevishly.  "Farm hand,"
he managed to bring out.  "Dig... dig."
   And then he lapsed into doggerel:
   
         "Dig and delve, delve and dig,
          Harness the mare to the farmer's gig."
   
   Finally Master Nathaniel gave up trying to get any sense
out of him and untethered his horse.  But when he tried to
mount, the old man seized the stirrup and looking up at him
imploringly, repeated, "Dig... dig... dig."  And Master
Nathaniel was obliged to shake him off with some roughness. 
And even after he had left him out of sight he could hear
his voice in the distance, shouting, "Dig... dig."
   "I wonder what the old fellow was trying to tell me,"
said Master Nathaniel to himself. 
   On the morning of the following day he arrived at the
village of Swan-on-the-Dapple.
   Here the drama of autumn had only just reached its
gorgeous climax, and the yellow and scarlet trees were
flaming out their silent stationary action against the
changeless chorus of pines, dark green against the distant
hills.
   "By the Golden Apples of the West!" muttered Master
Nathaniel, "I'd no idea those accursed hills were so near. 
I'm glad Ranulph's safe away."
   Having inquired his way to the Gibbertys' farm, he struck
off the high road into the valley -- and very lovely it was
looking in its autumn colouring.  The vintage was over, and
the vines were now golden and red.  Some of the narrow
oblong leaves of the wild cherry had kept their
bottle-green, while others, growing on the same twig, had
turned to salmon-pink, and the mulberries alternated between
canary-yellow and grass-green.  The mountain ash had turned
a fiery rose (more lovely, even, than had been its scarlet
berries) and often an olive grew beside it, as if ready,
lovingly, to quench its fire in its own tender grey.  The
birches twinkled and quivered, as if each branch were a
golden divining rod trembling to secret water; and the path
was strewn with olives, looking like black oblong dung.  It
was one of those mysterious autumn days that are intensely
bright though the sun is hidden; and when one looked at
these lambent trees one could almost fancy them the source
of the light flooding the valley.
   From time to time a tiny yellow butterfly would flit
past, like a little yellow leaf shed by one of the birches;
and now and then one of the bleeding, tortured looking
liege-oaks would drop an acorn, with a little flop -- just
to remind you, as it were, that it was leading its own
serene, vegetable life, oblivious to the agony ascribed to
it by the fevered fancy of man.
   Not a soul did Master Nathaniel pass after he had left
the village, though from time to time he saw in the distance
labourers following the plough through the vineyards, and
their smocks provided the touch of blue that turns a picture
into a story; there was blue smoke, too, to tell of human
habitations; and an occasional cock strutting up and down in
front of one of the red vines, like a salesman before his
wares, flaunting, by way of advertisement, a crest of the
same material as the vine leaves, but of a more brilliant
hue; and in the distance were rushes, stuck up in sheaves to
dry, and glimmering with the faint, whitish, pinky-grey of
far-away fruit trees in blossom.
   While, as if the eye had not enough to feed on in her own
domain, the sounds, even, of the valley were pictorial -- a
tinkling of distant bells, conjuring up herds of goats; the
ominous, melancholy roar which tells that somewhere a
waggoner is goading on his oxen; and the distant bark of
dogs that paints a picture of homesteads and sunny porches. 
   As Master Nathaniel jogged leisurely along, his thoughts
turned to the farmer Gibberty, who many a time must have
jogged along this path, in just such a way, and seen and 
heard the very same things that he was seeing and hearing
now.
   Yes, the farmer Gibberty had once been a real living man,
like himself.  And so had millions of others, whose names he
had never heard.  And one day he himself would be a
prisoner, confined between the walls of other people's
memory.  And then he would cease even to be that, and become
nothing but a few words cut in stone.  What would these
words be, he wondered.
   A sudden longing seized him to hold Ranulph again in his
arms.  How pleasant would have been the thought that he was
waiting to receive him at the farm!
   But he must be nearing his journey's end, for in the
distance he could discern the figure of a woman, leisurely
scrubbing her washing on one of the sides of a stone trough.
   "I wonder if that's the widow," thought Master
Nathaniel.  And a slight shiver went down his spine.
   But as he came nearer the washerwoman proved to be quite
a young girl.
   He decided she must be the granddaughter, Hazel; and so
she was.
   He drew up his horse beside her and asked if this were
the widow Gibberty's farm.
   "Yes, sir," she answered shortly, with that half-
frightened, half-defiant look that was so characteristic of
her.
   "Why, then, I've not been misdirected.  But though they
told me I'd find a thriving farm and a fine herd of cows,
the fools forgot to mention that the farmer was a rose in
petticoats," and he winked jovially.
   Now this was not Master Nathaniel's ordinary manner with
young ladies, which, as a matter of fact, was remarkably
free from flirtatious facetiousness.  But he had invented a
role to play at the farm, and was already beginning to
identify himself with it.
   As it turned out, this opening compliment was a stroke of
luck.  For Hazel bitterly resented that she was not
recognized as the lawful owner of the farm, and Master
Nathaniel's greeting of her as the farmer thawed her
coldness into dimples.
   "If you've come to see over the farm, I'm sure we'll be
very pleased to show you everything," she said graciously.
   "Thank'ee, thank'ee kindly.  I'm a cheesemonger from
Lud-in-the-Mist.  And there's no going to sleep quietly
behind one's counter these days in trade, if one's to keep
one's head above the water.  It's competition, missy,
competition that keeps old fellows like me awake.  Why, I
can remember when there weren't more than six cheesemongers
in the whole of Lud; and now there are as many in my street
alone.  So I thought I'd come myself and have a look round
and see where I could get the best dairy produce.  There's
nothing like seeing for oneself."
   And here he launched into an elaborate and gratuitous
account of all the other farms he had visited on his tour of
inspection.  But the one that had pleased him best, he said,
had been that of a very old friend of his -- and he named
the farmer near Moongrass with whom, presumably, Ranulph and
Luke were now staying. 
   Here Hazel looked up eagerly, and, in rather an unsteady
voice, asked if he'd seen two lads there -- a big one, and a
little one who was the son of the Seneschal.
   "Do you mean little Master Ranulph Chanticleer and Luke
Hempen?  Why, of course I saw them!  It was they who told me
to come along here... and very grateful I am to them, for I
have found something well worth looking at."
   A look of indescribable relief flitted over Hazel's face.
   "Oh... oh!  I'm so *glad* you saw them," she faltered.
   "Aha!  My friend Luke has evidently been making good use
of his time -- the young dog!" thought Master Nathaniel; and
he proceeded to retail a great many imaginary sayings and
doings of Luke at his new abode.
   Hazel was soon quite at home with the jovial, facetious
old cheesemonger.  She always preferred elderly men to young
ones, and was soon chatting away with the abandon sometimes
observable when naturally confiding people, whom
circumstances have made suspicious, find someone whom they
think they can trust; and Master Nathaniel was, of course,
drinking in every word and longing to be in her shoes.
   "But, missy, it seems all work and no play!" he cried at
last.  "Do you get no frolics and junketings?"
   "Sometimes we dance of an evening, when old Portunus is
here," she answered.
   "Portunus?" he cried sharply, "Who's he?"
   But this question froze her back into reserve.  "An old
weaver with a fiddle," she answered stiffly.
   "A bit doited?"
   Her only answer was to look at him suspiciously and say,
"Do you know Portunus, sir?"
   "Well, I believe I met him -- about half-way between here
and Lud.  The old fellow seemed to have something on his
mind, but couldn't get it out -- I've known many a parrot
that talked better than he."
   "Oh, I've often thought that, too!  That he'd something
on his mind, I mean," cried Hazel on another wave of
confidence.  "It's as if he were trying hard to tell one
something.  And he often follows me as if he wanted me to do
something for him.  And I sometimes think I should try and
help him and not be so harsh with him -- but he just gives
me the creeps, and I can't help it."
   "He gives you the creeps, does he?"
   "That he does!" she cried with a little shiver.  "To see
him gorging himself with green fruit!  It isn't like a human
being the way he does it -- it's like an insect or a bird. 
And he's like a cat, too, in the way he always follows about
the folk that don't like him.  Oh, he's *nasty*!  And he's
spiteful, too, and mischievous.  But perhaps that's not to
be wondered at, if..." and she broke off abruptly.
   Master Nathaniel gave her a keen look.  "If what?" he
said.
   "Oh, well -- just silly talk of the country people," said
Hazel evasively.
   "That he's -- er, for instance, one of what you call the
Silent People?" 
   "How did you know?"  And Hazel looked at him
suspiciously.
   "Oh, I guessed.  You see, I've heard a lot of that sort
of talk since I've been in the west.  Well, the old fellow
certainly seemed to have something he wanted to tell me, but
I can't say he was very explicit.  He kept saying, over and
over again, `Dig, dig.'"
   "Oh, that's his great word," cried Hazel.  "The old women
round about say that he's trying to tell one his name.  You
see, they think that... well, that he's a dead man come back
and that when he was on earth he was a labourer, by name
Diggory Carp."
   "Diggory Carp?" cried Master Nathaniel sharply.
   Hazel looked at him in surprise.  "Did you know him,
sir?" she asked.
   "No, no; not exactly.  But I seem to have heard the name
somewhere.  Though I dare say in these parts it's a common
enough one.  Well, and what do they say about this Diggory
Carp?"
   Hazel looked a little uneasy.  "They don't say much, sir
-- to me.  I sometimes think there must have been some
mystery about him.  But I know that he was a merry, kind
sort of man, well liked all round, and a rare fiddler.  But
he came to a sad end, though I never heard what happened
exactly.  And they say," and here she lowered her voice
mysteriously, "that once a man joins the Silent People he
becomes mischievous and spiteful, however good-natured he
may have been when he was alive.  And if he'd been unfairly
treated, as they say he was, it would make him all the more
spiteful, I should think.  I often think he's got something
he wants to tell us, and I sometimes wonder if it's got
anything to do with the old stone herm in our orchard...
he's so fond of dancing round it."
   "Really?  And where is this old herm?  I want to see all
the sights of the country, you know; get my money's worth of
travel!"  And Master Nathaniel donned again the character of
the cheerful cheesemonger, which, in the excitement of the
last few minutes, he had, unwittingly, sloughed.
   As they walked to the orchard, which was some distance
from the washing trough, Hazel said, nervously:
   "Perhaps you hadn't heard, sir, but I live here with my
granny; at least, she isn't my real granny, though I call
her so.  And... and... well, she seems fond of old Portunus,
and perhaps it would be as well not to mention to her that
you had met him."
   "Very well; I won't mention him to her... at present." 
And he gave her rather a grim little smile.
   Though the orchard had been stripped of its fruit, what
with the red and yellow leaves, and the marvelous ruby-red
of the lateral branches of the peach trees there was colour
enough in the background of the old grey herm, and, in
addition, there twisted around him the scarlet and gold of a
vine.
   "I often think he's the spirit of the farm," said Hazel
shyly, looking to see if Master Nathaniel was admiring her
old stone friend.  To her amazement, however, as soon as his
eyes fell on it he clapped his hand against his thigh, and
burst out laughing. 
   "By the Sun, Moon and Stars!" he cried, "here's the
answer to Portunus's riddle: `the tree yet not a tree, the
man yet not a man,'" and he repeated to Hazel the one
consecutive sentence that Portunus had managed to enunciate.
   "`Who has no arms and yet can strike, who is dumb and yet
can tell secrets,'" she repeated after him.  "Can you strike
and tell secrets, old friend?" she asked whimsically,
stroking the grey lichened stone.  And then she blushed and
laughed as if to apologize for this exhibition of
childishness.
   
   With country hospitality Hazel presumed that their
uninvited guest had come to spend several days at the farm,
and accordingly she had his horse taken to the stables and
ordered the best room to be prepared for his use.
   The widow, too, gave him a hearty welcome, when he came
down to the midday meal in the big kitchen.
   When they had been a few minutes at table, Hazel said,
"Oh, granny, this gentleman has just come from the farm near
Moongrass, where little Master Chanticleer and young Hempen
have gone.  And he says they were both of them blooming, and
sent us kind messages."
   "Yes," said Master Nathaniel cheerfully, ever ready to
start romancing, "my old friend the farmer is delighted with
them.  The talk in Lud was that little Chanticleer had been
ill, but all I can say is, you must have done wonders for
him -- his face is as round and plump as a Moongrass
cheese."
   "Well, I'm glad you're pleased with the young gentleman's
looks, sir," said the widow in a gratified voice.  But in
her eyes there was the gleam of a rather disquieting smile.
   Dinner over, the widow and Hazel had to go and attend to
their various occupations, and Master Nathaniel went and
paced up and down in front of the old house, thinking.
   Over and over again his thoughts returned to the odd old
man, Portunus.
   Was it possible that he had really once been Diggory
Carp, and that he had returned to his old haunts to try and
give a message?
   It was characteristic of Master Nathaniel that the
metaphysical possibilities of the situation occupied him
before the practical ones.  If Portunus were, indeed,
Diggory Carp, then these stubble-fields and vineyards, these
red and golden trees, would be robbed of their peace and
stability.  For he realized at last that the spiritual balm
he had always found in silent things was simply the
assurance that the passions and agonies of man were without
meaning, roots, or duration -- no more part of the permanent
background of the world than the curls of blue smoke that
from time to time were wafted through the valley from the
autumn bonfires of weeds and rubbish, and that he could see
winding like blue wraiths in and out of the foliage of the
trees. 
   Yes, their message, though he had never till now heard it
distinctly, had always been that Fairyland was nothing but
delusion -- there was life and death, and that was all.  And
yet, had their message always comforted him?  There had been
times when he had shuddered in the company of the silent
things.
   "Aye, aye," he murmured dreamily to himself, and then he
sighed.
   But he had yielded long enough to vain speculations --
there were things to be *done*.  Whether Portunus were the
ghost of Diggory Carp or merely a doited old weaver, he
evidently knew something that he wanted to communicate --
and it was connected with the orchard herm.  Of course, it
might have nothing whatever to do with the murder of the
late farmer Gibberty, but with the memory of the embroidered
slipper fresh in his mind, Master Nathaniel felt it would be
rank folly to neglect a possible clue.
   He went over in his mind all the old man's words.  "Dig,
dig,"... that word had been the ever recurring burden.
   Then he had a sudden flash of inspiration -- why should
not the word be taken in its primary meaning,?  Why, instead
of the first syllable of Diggory Carp, should it not be
merely and order to dig... with a spade or a shovel?  In
that case it was clear that the place to dig in was under
the herm.  And he decided that he would do so as soon as an
opportunity presented itself.