“You’re so stupid!” Orna squealed, beside herself, laughing until the tears came. “How could anybody be green? You’re so stupid, Teles! So, so stupid!”
Bumis lay his hand on Teles’s shoulder. Teles looked at the hand and, in his mind, saw it entering his mouth and himself chomping down on it, ripping it to shreds. But the hand withdrew quickly, and Bumis, as if he’d read Teles’s mind, rubbed it protectively. Then, staring at Teles with his irresistibly mocking and cruel eyes, he said, “Teles, I know you don’t understand much, but try to understand this: they aren’t green. Nobody can be green. There’s nothing green about them but the clothes they wear. And besides—”
Teles interrupted him with a howl of anger, and Bumis’s golden eyes reflected the pleasure this brought him. They were the ones who’d said the men were green. Orna had said it, not him! He had only asked.…
“An idiotic question,” said Larte. “Just what you’d expect from an idiot. They aren’t green; only a stupid guy would think that, right, Orna? And only a really stupid guy could think that getting near the men might harm him. Isn’t that what you said, Teles?”
Ignore them, thought Teles, ignore them completely, don’t open your mouth. Oh, to grab them, if only for a moment, and bash in their noses! But they were fast, and there were three of them, three hateful, crazy things all moving in different directions. Teles kept walking, staring obstinately straight ahead, feeling himself pinched, punched, pushed.… Ignore them, ignore them.
Orna, in front of him or behind him, was telling him things about the green men. She enjoyed saying they were green, maybe to get Teles to argue back so she could pile on him. But Teles kept quiet, repressing his anger, walking very carefully through the tall grass, picking his way among the rocks, because tripping might bring on the cruelest jokes.
Gradually he ceased to notice the punches and pinches and laughter of Larte and Bumis. What, had they left? No, there was Orna, still talking to him. He didn’t dare look back.
“You’re no good for anything,” Orna then said. “Larte and Bumis got bored of you. How can you live like this? You’re an idiot, Teles. Hasn’t Bímer taught you how to behave around people?”
Teles quickly glanced back. They were gone! And Orna would soon get bored, too; it was just a matter of ignoring her. Put up with it all in silence, don’t complain, like a rock or a pile of dry leaves.
Luckily they weren’t far from the ships now.
But after a while he realized that Orna seemed in no hurry to leave his side; she was hateful, more hateful and stubborn than the other two put together. Fine, he’d let her get overconfident, and when she least expected it he’d jump her and wring her neck. Why wasn’t she talking about the green men now? He’d have liked that, because it would make her punishment that much more delicious. Teles wasn’t thinking about Bímer or Borles anymore, or about the ships or anything else; just Orna and the hatred he felt for her.
Orna looked at him with an expression that struck him as frightened, but she was laughing inside, there in the wicked, evil darkness of her beautiful head.
“The face you’re making!” Orna screamed, making faces back at him. That’s it, Teles thought, following her out of the corner of his eye. He was delighted to see her walking blithely toward him. Had she already forgotten everything she’d done to make him mad?
Orna’s arms were swinging rhythmically by her sides. Arms with white, smooth, soft skin. Teles calculated how far away she was. Suddenly he jumped on her and held her in his arms, gazing at her with flaming eyes, his hot breath in her face.
Far off, through the leaves, he could see the ships.
Teles forced her to lie on the grass, sinking his fingernails into the flesh of her arms. Orna screamed in pain and laughed, spat in his face and stuck her tongue out at him. That’s it, that’s it, Teles thought, knowing she had no way to escape his fierce grasp.
“What stupid thing are you doing to me?” Orna yelled. Teles looked at her with hatred, a hatred that made him shake until his teeth rattled.
He had his full weight on Orna’s tiny body, and he felt her belly and her breasts and her thighs moving beneath him. He felt her whole body struggling, hot and soft; the scent of her hair, of her mouth, of her neck. She was delicate, he could rip her apart, bite her, smother her.… By now all the things of the world really had vanished from his head. He began to feel a strange sensation, as if his anger and his hatred had built up so much they had blinded him, and his desire to hurt her had turned into a desire to caress her brutally.
He grabbed her by the hair, pinioning her head, panting for breath. She looked at him for a moment, her eyes wide. Teles felt the sweet, wet breath of her mouth very near him; he realized he was searching for Orna’s mouth to kiss her. Orna shook her head wildly and tried to escape his arms; she relaxed for a moment. Teles found her mouth, kissed her. She opened her mouth and bit him ferociously on the lips, then dug her nails into his back. Teles screamed in pain and writhed on the grass. Orna ran away, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of her face, feeling a strange jumble of feelings clouded by mockery. He stood up slowly, wiping the blood from his lips.
He felt bad, very bad, as if something essential, irreplaceable, had been ripped from his body. Now he hated her more than ever, with a new, different, disconcerting hatred. He desired her; he was dazed, trembling. He looked through the greenery: the ships! Maybe Borles and his father weren’t mistaken. It was bad to get too close to this symbol. Bad! How had he not realized it was all because of the dark influence of that symbol? Larte, Bumis, Orna herself had never seemed so depraved. He recalled Orna’s face, those eyes … that scent! He ran from there as fast as he could, leaping over logs and stones, but his distress didn’t diminish; on the contrary, it grew deeper, more unbearable.
The fresh air from the west bore an unmistakable scent. “Orna.” He called out to her; he felt humiliated, ridiculous. But he didn’t really care. He wanted to see her again. He had no self-control; he felt capable of doing whatever it took to be able to hold her in his arms again. If it had been the evil influence of that symbol, fine! Let the evil influence come over him, let the unthinkable come over him, so long as it brought him Orna.
He needed her, blindly, this very instant, quick! He felt a sharp pinch on his back; he turned; he shouted, roared with delight. It was her! He didn’t know what to do, run after her or cry over her. He collapsed, falling to his knees, his arms held wide. Orna stopped in front of him with her hands on her hips and her legs spread; smiling, defiant. Had he ever been so sick as to want to get away from her? Had he really ever hated her?
That instant of having her once more in his arms dissipated like a dream; the pleasure made him forget the pleasure, the coming into being of the pleasure. It was like a madness that had suddenly descended on him, creating a sort of barrier between his consciousness and his actions. He was caressing her, more with his eyes than with his hands; kissing her with his aching lips on her mouth, her forehead, the nape of her neck.… Suddenly an elbow to his stomach, a laugh, and Orna was running away again. How many times had they repeated this game that had so befuddled his mind?
He ran after her, unable to see her, guided only by her laughter, by her scent. More encounters, more escapes. Orna was as tireless and sly as the forces of nature. Teles’s hand finally closed on her arm; he tugged forcefully. Orna bit his hand, maybe not too hard; he didn’t let go. With his free arm he encircled her waist and pulled her to him, softly but firmly. He tensed his muscles; if she punched or bit him now it would be to no effect. Orna still resisted, in the sweet way that was not resisting; they tumbled onto a bed of dry, fragrant leaves.
He felt the foolish manly pride of having vanquished the woman; but he knew that she was the one who had really triumphed—not Orna, but the mysterious part of her female self that she didn’t control either, and against which she was still resisting. But none of these considerations entered Teles’s mind; they were outside, flying above his actions, like a mischievous little cloud.
Orna stopped resisting;