The wedding was intimate and radiant, fire with fire. Having broken the sacred law, they were accurst, and lay naked to the vengeance of gods and men. But, since nothing could alter that, since there was no avoiding the doom, the shame that might have divided them was a bond drawing them closer together. In the tragic isolation of this shame they were made indissolubly one; for each to the other was the sole refuge in a world grown suddenly hostile. In their fancy the sun eyed them with burning accusation and the air shrank from the infection of their sin. Danger was all about them; destruction was certain; and their delight in each other was the sharper because it must be brief, a snatched instant of eternity. It was not long before the cloud of terror came back into Ogo’s eyes. He was thinking perhaps of the story of Strong, another of the friends and followers of Hawkon: Strong the hunter who, being pursued and tempted in the forest by a forbidden woman, had driven his spear through her throat, so preserving his virtue and winning the applause of all the tribe. A shining example, but one that it was too late for Ogo to think of following. His glance returning to Wooma, he was surprised again by a feeling he could neither understand nor express. His hand touched her. They bared their teeth at each other and gazed with bright eyes.
Presently he began asking questions.
‘I took milk from the deer that Hawkon has,’ answered Wooma. ‘And the woman Flint caught me and beat me. So I ran away here, into the forest, to escape her, and to make magic against her.’
‘You have magic?’ Ogo was awed, and a little repelled. The rest of her tale had passed over his head. Milk from the deer—what crazy talk is this? But magic—that is familiar enough. And dangerous.
‘No.’ Wooma was quick to see his shrinking. ‘I am Wooma. I have no magic of my own. But I found Flint hopping in the likeness of a frog, and I killed her. I said, This frog is not a frog: it is the woman Flint that Hawkon has taken. And I beat her with a stone like this, three times. So now Flint is dead and Wooma is afraid to go back.’
Ogo shuddered, and looked about him uneasily. ‘Where is this place? Where is the Koor?’
She pointed to the shadow of the tree they sat under. ‘See, lord, the dark ghost of the tree.’ She pointed to a near bush. ‘See, lord, the bush.’
‘I see them,’ assented Ogo.
‘When the dark ghost has crawled to the bush, and touches him, we are in the squat of Koor.’
‘I am thirsty,’ said Ogo. He could not believe that Koor’s squat was so near, a mere hour’s journey; for his surroundings were unfamiliar. He was suspicious of Wooma, but answered her nothing. ‘I am thirsty.’