The deadlings were enormous, broad-shouldered, in mint condition, not a single scratch or rough edge. Their incredibly long arms reached down to the grass. Without taking his eyes from them, Kandid halted in their path. The deadlings were gazing over the top of his head and moved unhurriedly toward him; he faltered, gave ground, putting off the inevitable beginning and the inevitable end, contending with a nervous desire to bs sick and trying to bring himself to make a stand. Behind his back, Nava was shouting: "Mam! It's me. Mam, main!" Stupid women, why don't they run? Too scared to run? Stop, he said to himself, stop, blast you! How long can you walk backward? He was unable to stop. Nava's there, he thought. And those three idiots... Fat, dreamy, indifferent idiots... And Nava... What are they to me anyway, he thought. Hopalong would have made off long ago on his one leg. Buster quicker than that... But I've got to stay. Not fair. But I must stay! Well, stop then! ... He was unable to stop, and despised himself for it, and applauded himself for it, and hated himself for it, and kept on going backward.
The deadlings stopped. Straight away, as if at an order. The one in the lead froze with one leg in the air, then slowly, as if undecided, lowered it to the grass. Their mouths dropped slackly open and their heads swiveled toward the hilltop.
Kandid, still retreating, glanced around. Nava, legs kicking, was hanging around the neck of one of the women, who, it seemed, was smiling and clapping her lightly on the back. The other two women were standing calmly by watching them. Not watching the dead-lings, not the hill. Not even Kandid, a strange hairy man, perhaps a robber. The deadlings, for their part, were standing stock-still, like some primitive graven image of old, as if their legs grew straight into the earth, as if in all the forest there were no woman left to seize and carry off somewhere, in obedience to orders; from beneath their feet, like the smoke of a sacrificial fire, rose pillars of steam.
Kandid now swung around and walked toward the women. Not walked, but rather trailed, totally uncertain, not believing eyes, ears, or brain anymore. His skull was a seething mass of pain, and his whole body ached from the tension of his brush with death.
"Run," he said again from a distance. "Run before it's too late, why're you standing there?" He already knew he was talking nonsense, but it was the inertia of obligation, and he continued his mechanical mumbling: "Deadlings here, run, I'll delay them..."
They paid him no attention. It wasn't that they didn't hear or see him - the young woman, a girl really, perhaps a couple of years older than Nava, still slim-legged, examined him and smiled in very friendly fashion - but he meant nothing to them, no more than if he were a big stray hound, the sort that dash aimlessly about in all directions and are willing to stand about for hours near people, waiting for reasons known only to themselves.
"Why aren't you running?" asked Kandid quietly. He expected no answer and received none.
"My, my, my," the pregnant woman was saying, laughing and shaking her head. "And who would have thought it? Would you?" she inquired of the girl. "I certainly wouldn't. My dear," said she addressing Nava's mother, "what was it like? Did he puff and pant? Or did he just twitch about and break into a sweat?"
"It wasn't like that," said the girl, "he was beautiful, wasn't he? He was fresh like the dawn, and fragrant..."
"As a lily," chimed in the pregnant woman, "you were dizzy from his smell, you got all tingly from his paws... Did you have time to squeal?"
The girl burst out laughing. Nava's mother smiled reluctantly. They were all thick-set, healthy, surprisingly cleanly, as if thoroughly washed, which indeed they were - their short hair was wet and their yellowish sacklike garments clung to their damp bodies. Nava's mother was the tallest of them and apparently the eldest. Nava was hugging her around the waist, her face buried in her bosom.
"How should you know," said Nava's mother with feigned indifference. "What can you know about it? You've a lot to learn..."
"All right," said the pregnant woman at once. "How can we know? That's why we're asking you... Tell us, please, what was the root of love like?"
"Was it bitter?" said the girl, and shook with laughter again.
"There, there, the fruit's pretty sweet if grubby..." "Never mind, we'll wash it clean," said Nava's mother. "You don't know if Spider Pond's been cleaned out yet, do you? Or do we have to take her into the valley?"
"The root was bitter," said the pregnant woman to the girl. "She doesn't like recalling it. Strange isn't it, and they say it's unforgettable! Listen dear, you do dream about him, don't you?"
"Not very funny," said Nava's mother. "And sick..."
"We're not trying to be funny, are we?" The pregnant woman was amazed. "We're just interested."
"You tell a story so well," said the girl with a flashing smile. "Tell us more..."
