Till We Have Faces_ A Myth Retold - C. S. Lewis [44]
And now, you who read, give judgement. That moment when I either saw or thought I saw the House — does it tell against the gods or against me? Would they (if they answered) make it a part of their defence? say it was a sign, a hint, beckoning me to answer the riddle one way rather than the other? I'll not grant them that. What is the use of a sign which is itself only another riddle? It might — I'll allow so much — it might have been a true seeing; the cloud over my mortal eyes may have been lifted for a moment. It might not; what would be easier than for one distraught and not, maybe, so fully waking as she seemed, gazing at a mist, in a half-light, to fancy what had filled her thoughts for so many hours? What easier, even, than for the gods themselves to send the whole ferly for a mockery? Either way, there's divine mockery in it. They set the riddle and then allow a seeming that can't be tested and can only quicken and thicken the tormenting whirlpool of your guess-work. If they had an honest intention to guide us, why is their guidance not plain? Psyche could speak plain when she was three; do you tell me the gods have not yet come so far?
When I came back to Bardia he was just awake. I did not tell him what I had seen; until I wrote it in this book, I have never told it to anyone.
Our journey down was comfortless, for there was no sun and the wind was always in our faces, with scudding showers at times. I, sitting behind Bardia, got less of it than he.
We halted somewhere about noon, under the lee of a small wood, to eat what was left of our food. Of course my riddle had been working in my mind all morning, and it was there, out of the wind for a little and somewhat warmer (was Psyche warm? and worse weather soon to come) that I made up my mind to tell him the whole story; always excepting that moment when I looked into the mist. I knew he was an honest man, and secret, and (in his own way) wise.
He listened to it all very diligently but said nothing when I had ended. I had to draw his answer out of him.
"How do you read it all, Bardia?"
"Lady," says he, "it's not my way to say more than I can help of gods and divine matters. I'm not impious. I wouldn't eat with my left hand, or lie with my wife when the moon's full, or slit open a pigeon to clean it with an iron knife, or do anything else that's unchancy and profane, even if the King himself were to bid me. And as for sacrifices, I've always done all that can be expected of a man on my pay. But for anything more — I think the less Bardia meddles with the gods, the less they'll meddle with Bardia."
But I was determined to have his counsel.
"Bardia," I said, "do you think my sister is mad?".
"Look, Lady," he answered, "there at your very first word you say what's better unsaid. Mad? The Blessed — mad? Moreover, we've seen her and anyone could tell she was in her right mind."
"Then you think there really was a palace in the valley though I couldn't see it?"
"I don't well know what's really, when it comes to houses of gods."
"And what of this lover who comes to her in the dark?"
"I say nothing about him."
"Oh, Bardia — and among the spears men say you're the bravest! Are you afraid even to whisper your thought to me? I am in desperate need of counsel."
"Counsel about what, Lady? What is there to do?"
"How do you read this riddle? Does anyone really come to her?"
"She says so, Lady. Who am I to give the Blessed One the lie?"
"Who is he?"
"She knows that best."
"She knows nothing. She confesses she has never seen him. Bardia, what kind of a lover must this be who forbids his bride to see his face?"
Bardia was silent. He had a pebble between his thumb and forefinger and was drawing