With Wooma it was otherwise. For her the life with Ogo in the forest, brief though it had been, was the true and continuing reality, and these days of dearth, with women eyeing her suspiciously and scolding her to work, and Koor the all-powerful and all-capricious a vast shadow in the background, were nothing but a nightmare suspension of that life, a dream imposed. She was waiting but not expectant. She waited, without hope, for something to happen that should set her heart beating again. She was not so crazy as to think that Ogo would claim her and steal her away from the tribe: nor could she have planned so far ahead. For the most part she chose to believe herself rejected and forgotten by Ogo, and did believe it, immersing herself almost ecstatically in the humiliation of it, except in moments when his parting look grew dim and faded on the screen of her memory, giving place to images of love. Many rumours of him reached her ears: of his hunting, his gaiety, his stories and songs. She wondered at these things and rejoiced in them, appropriating some of the praise to herself who was part of him, feeling his exploits to be in some sense her own; but side by side with this flame of love, this pride that was like a mother’s pride, there burned a hatred engendered by her frustrated desire. The pretence that he was hers did not suffice to allay her murderous resentment when she remembered that he had forced her, won her heart, and at last turned against her. Now he was happy, and she was nothing. She came at times within an ace of conceiving the idea of denouncing him to Koor, at whatever cost to herself. Yet at other times she was all humility and submission, thrust deeper into her heart the knife he had pierced her with, and cried, luxuriating in pain: Ogo is great, Ogo is cruel, and Wooma is nothing to him; Ogo is proud, and Wooma is trodden under foot. In this abjection she found an obscure pride.
It was in returning from the hunt with Hawkon and his comrades that Ogo next saw her. She, with other women, was at work on the lower terrace, breaking the ground with a flint-headed pick. As he neared her she straightened her bent back and looked at him with steady challenging eyes. Taken unawares, he halted and gazed back. Recognition flashed between them. For Ogo, because he had put her out of mind, the sight of her was overwhelming. Light blazed in him; the drums of war began beating in his blood: the unuttered homesickness of his heart vanished in promise of appeasement: and with a cry he ran towards her. An answering cry of horror checked him; he remembered his surroundings, and, drooping where he stood, watched her turn quickly her back on him and resume her work. Someone put a rough hand on him, and he started round to find Stare grasping his shoulder. Stare’s eyes were anxious. ‘Where’re you going, brother? You come with Stare.’ There was accusation as well as question in his look, and Ogo met it with bewilderment. Since Ogo’s return to the tribe these two had been much together: there was affection between them. Ogo longed to ease himself of his burden, but he dared not utter the words that would make his friend shrink back in fear and loathing. So in silence he suffered himself to be led away. No more was said; the secret remained with him as far as he knew; but the precarious peace of his existence was shattered, for Wooma in that instant had returned and invaded him and now filled him with the fire of agony and bliss. He was distraught, not knowing how he could live without her, feeling indeed that he was already dying for lack of her. He lay in his corner of the squat and gave himself up to sickness. Stare watched and derided him and brought him food, knowing nothing of his trouble. Ogo sulked and would not eat. It seemed that a madness had come upon him: a rumour that brought many visitors to stare at him with religious awe. Hasta came, scenting rivalry; for in madness, which is a sign of peculiar attention from the gods, a man may speak and do magic. And Nigh came, curious to learn the truth of a matter that had provoked so many fantastic tales. Ogo was dumb and would not eat. He sat rigid, seeing and hearing nothing. It was Nigh himself who, after many days, led him out of this trance.
‘Through the mouth of Hasta the Wise One the gods have spoken,’ said Nigh, rehearsing a ritual.
‘Through my mouth,’ said Hasta, ‘they have chosen the woman for the sowing . . .’
‘By my hand,’ said Nigh, ‘she shall be slain, and her blood scattered.’
‘So,’ chanted Hasta, ‘will the earth-god be won to favour. The sky will smile and send water to quench him; the grain will swell in the dark womb; and the harvest will be plentiful for all the sons of Koor.’
‘It is so,’ murmured the young men reverently.
Ogo alone remained silent.