The Green Knight (75 page)

Sleeping up in the attic she had bad dreams. She dreamt about the swan. She had hurt the swan, broken its foot, the webbed foot hung, half-severed from the leg, red with blood. The swan was hopping on its one leg. Only now the river had turned into a shop, a poulterer's shop, where the swan, still alive, was hanging from a hook. She dreamt about the black-footed ferret, that it was stuffed in a glass case in the Natural History Museum, and when Moy came to look at it she saw it opening its little mouth to say something to her, only as she watched a keeper came and hand-cuffed her and led her away, and all the lights went out. She dreamt about the little house where the spider lived and that she had become very little and was in the house with the spider, and the spider was frightened and kept saying to Moy ‘Save me, save me!' and Moy was crying and saying, ‘I can't save you, I'm too small, I'm too little.' She dreamt about Colin her hamster and how an evil cat was carrying him away into a wood to kill him, and how she tried to run after the cat, but could only move very slowly, and the trees and the bushes were reaching out their arms to hinder her. She dreamt about Tibellina the Good Cat, and how she had lain on her death-bed and Moy had stroked her and she had looked up at Moy so piteously and could not even mew. She dreamt she was the little dragon whom Saint George was about to behead. She dreamt she saw the Polish Rider passing slowly by and he was weeping and she called out to him, but he turned his head away. She dreamt that she was drowning in the pool of tears.

Those were the tortures of the night. The tortures of the day consisted in pretending to eat, pretending to play, pretending to be happy, passing the hours, enduring the sympathetic looks and the loving remarks. Louise's conjecture that Moy was going mad was now sometimes being entertained by Moy too. She had tried, walking about behind the house and along the shore, to remember where, in what fold of the grassy hills, was the rock to which the lichened stone belonged. She several times walked up into the hills, feeling for some sense of direction or god-given orientation, but none came. She recalled that the grass had been fairly long, there had been no trees, a bush perhaps – and it was in a little dip or dell. Had there been a stream? Near a path? She could not remember. Today (it was the day after Clement had shown Louise the sea and the beauty of the world), not in any hope but in order to do something, perhaps simply to ‘give up', Moy had carried the stone down surreptitiously to the sea. At low tide it was possible to walk around the little headland into the next, also small, bay where there was a different vista of the hills. Moy had already tried this view in vain. What she wanted now was simply to be out of sight of the house. She walked down the beach to a line of low rocks and took the heavy conical stone out of its bag. Then climbing up a little, she placed it on top of a flat rock. Perhaps the stones could signal to each other? But could she interpret the signal? She climbed down and walked back and wandered about near the shore upon the grass between the stones and the hills but felt nothing and saw nothing. She wondered whether she should leave the stone here upon the rock, where it was rather conspicuous. Perhaps someone else would find it and take it home. Could that be a good thing or a bad thing? Or should she put it into the sea? Would it like the sea? It was not a sea stone. Yet, in hundreds and thousands of years it would become a sea stone, the runes would be washed away, its sharp cone would be softened into a hump and sea creatures would live upon it. She started to climb up the rock again to retrieve the stone, then decided not to. What did it matter? It was just a stone. It was nothing. She was nothing.

 

 

Bellamy was sitting in his bedroom. Spread out beside him on the bed were all the letters which Father Damien had written to him. Anax was lying on the bed, partly on the letters, looking at Bellamy, blinking with his sly blue eyes, slightly stirring his bushy tail when his master looked at him. He had extended himself in an attitude which Bellamy loved, stretching out his long hind legs behind him. ‘Move over, Anax.' Bellamy pulled the letters out and arranged them.

He had decided at the last moment to bring the letters with him. Earlier, he had thought of destroying them, they upset him so profoundly. He thought: and
he
never knew Peter! Everything had happened so topsy-turvy. It was as if it would take years for him to
understand
what had happened. But what would he be doing during those years, how would he live, would he not simply
forget
? But then how would he exist, having forgotten? He would become some sort of inert sleepy animal like a toad. He had had a terrible dream in which he was lying on the ground soaking wet, having become long and grey and without arms, and people were treading on him. This dream suddenly reminded him of some other old dream in which he had been ‘Spingle-spangle'. But
who
was ‘Spingle-spangle', and how did
he
connect with the Archangel Michael, leaning on his sword, and looking down with satisfaction upon the suffering of the damned? Bellamy had brought a notebook with him, intending to copy out parts of the letters. But when he began reading them he was overcome by emotion, and found himself reading and re-reading certain sentences as if they composed part of a continuous litany, as if a distant clear voice were speaking them and he were murmuring the responses.

 

You are deeply stained by the world, the stain is taken deeply, as the years go by, you cannot become holy by renouncing worldly pleasures, you must not look for revelations or for signs, these are mere selfish thrills which you mistake for adoration, what you take for humility is the charm of masochism, what you call the dark night is the obscurity of the restless soul, by picturing the end of the road you imagine you have reached it, you cherish magic which is the enemy of truth, you think of the dedicated life as a form of death, but you will be alive and crying, the way of Christ is hard and plain, it is a way of brokenness, we seek the invisible through the visible, but we make idols of the visible, icons which are made for breaking, the agonies of that pilgrimage may consume a lifetime and end in despair, your wish to suffer is a soothing day-dream, the false God punishes, the true God slays, the evils in you must be killed, not kept as pets to be tormented, do not punish your sins, you must destroy them, go out and help your neighbour, be happy yourself and make others happy, that is your path, not that of the cloister, be quiet, humble, know that what you can achieve is little, desire the good which purifies the love that seeks it, pray always, stay at home and do not look for God outside your own soul.

 

As Bellamy put down the last letter (they were only roughly in chronological order) he found tears in his eyes, and lifted his hands to dry them. He sighed a long deep sigh. He thought, surely some day I will go to him and I shall bow down to the ground before him in the Russian manner. Only, alas, I would not find him, and I must not find him, he told me to expect, or indeed seek, no signal, and I must think of him as vanished utterly and gone forever. Now he is just Mr Damien Butler and I shall never see him again. I wonder if he has some other name and has already become Mr John Butler or Mr Stanley Butler. How agonising it must be for a priest to give up all that magic power – magic, yes, he feared it, power over souls. If he despaired, what must I do? Does he not tell me? Not to seek solitude, to go out and help my neighbour. I suppose I shall do that. The drama is over – why do I call it a drama – he would understand, he has been through it all, and he has learnt therein things which I shall never know. And he thought, finding it suddenly the most terrible of those sayings: the way of brokenness. And he thought sorrowfully of his parting from his dear mentor, and the last words with which he had left him, the parting words of Virgil, your will is free, upright and sound, it would be wrong not to be ruled by its good sense. Have I got a sound upright will, Bellamy wondered. I'm not sure that I have. Indeed I am sure that I have not. Anyway, Dante was not setting off alone into the wilderness, he was going on into the magnetic region of the Divine. And what was that stuff about crowns and mitres? I'll ask Emil about it, he knows everything, and I'll ask him about my will too. And as he thought this Bellamy felt a sudden surge, as of a warm wind, a breath of warm air. He thought, yes it is true, I love Emil, and Emil loves me, I shall get that job helping people, and we shall live together and stay together.

Bellamy had been vaguely aware for some time that Anax was restless. He had lifted his long muzzle and now was whining slightly, then as Bellamy gave him his attention he jumped off the bed and ran to the door. It's past his walk time, thought Bellamy, besides I want to be outside breathing the fresh air, I have found new thoughts. He put on his overcoat and scarf and his woollen cap which Clement derided, and went downstairs following Anax's rush. As he opened the front door admitting the cold wind the dog began to run, running up toward the little headland – they called it a headland but it was really a hillock – which divided the house from the next bay. Bellamy called ‘Anax, wait!', but the wind blew his voice away. He hurried on after the dog, who by now had disappeared. A few minutes later, as he hurried on, he could hear Anax barking; it was Anax's hysterical bark. What could be the matter?

 

Moy picked up the bag. It was not empty, it contained something else which she had forgotten. She drew it out, a long yellowish snake, her plait of hair. It had already lost its sheen, its light, its life, it was a dead thing. Moy advanced toward the sea, as she did so pulling the elastic band off the end of the plait. She put the elastic band in the pocket of her coat. The mild weather had departed, an east wind was blowing, at the horizon a continuous wall of cloud was moving steadily along, joining the sky and the sea. Nearer, overhead, the sky was a pale pregnant spongy grey. Moy was wearing her winter overcoat with a woollen scarf, stout boots, warm trousers, and a mackintosh hood over her, as she felt it, shaven head. She stepped carefully over the band of seaweed onto a stretch of pebbly sand. She noticed stones, wet and shining. She came down to the edge of the sea, stepping into the strong running foam. The sea now seemed to be above her, a ragged wall of grey sliding curves and boiling white crests. A cold light as of its own making hung over the sea, a mist of instantly dissolving spray caught by some dull gleam from the rain-filled sky above. Not far out now, the tall waves were breaking with a ferocious booming sound, smashing themselves into the curling racing waters which rushed forward and as wildly receded. Moy took a firm hold of the thinner end of the rope of hair, and whirling it, hurled it with all her strength out toward the great heads of the breakers where it vanished instantly. She thought, I can't throw it very far, the tide will bring it in again, it will look like seaweed, and anyway I – anyway – I –

Moy's terrible secret sorrow which she had told to no one was this. She was not, she never had been, the least bit in love with Clement. She was very fond of Clement. But she was, and had always been, desperately in love with Harvey. An early joke about her being ‘keen on Clement' enabled her to hide her dreadful love and her dreadful hope. She had counted the days and the weeks and the years until she should be old enough to tell her love. She had watched him, she had studied him, she had imagined, she had pictured it a thousand times, how she would reveal it to him. She had looked into the mirror, trying to see herself through his eyes. She had felt desperation, then increasing hope, then new fears, then new hopes. She had not imagined that he would marry Aleph. Indeed, she was glad of his friendship with Aleph since it removed him from other temptations, reserved him, she now so often felt,
for her
. Beyond her declaration of love she could not see. But as she rehearsed the intensity of her passion she thought that he
must
, when the time came,
respond
. The desire to, at the right time,
tell
him became, as the years moved forward toward that time, increasingly painful, like a poisoned wound that must heal itself by breaking open. She
now
thought in anguish of the times, the recent times, when she could have told him, and had been afraid to, and had clumsily withdrawn, when she could have attracted him and drawn his attention to her. When she had watched over him when he was sleeping in the sedan-chair and could have wakened him with a kiss. If only she had
let him know,
then she could more easily have borne his not preferring her. He was ready to fall in love – and if he had
known –
he must have loved her – if he had known how much she loved him. The pain of this loss burnt her in every waking moment, that awful ‘if only'. She had lost him, and lost him through her own fault. There were no more pleasures now in life, her stones knew it, they were dead. She moved forward into the swirling water.

Then she saw them. She thought, but
people are swimming
in the wild sea, many people, many faces turned towards her, big eyes gazing at her. Then she realised – it's the silkies, they have come for me –
my
people have come for me at last. She took off her overcoat and threw it behind her. She plunged forward, stumbling in the high violent breaking waves. As she fell she heard the distant sound of Anax barking.

 

 

When Bellamy reached the top of the slope and looked down into the next bay he saw Anax on the beach, right up against the breaking waves, rushing in toward the waves, then running back again, continuing to bark hysterically.
Whatever is it
? Then Bellamy saw the seals. The little bay was full of seals, their wet grey doggy heads bobbing in the wild-crested waters, just a little beyond where the huge waves were breaking. He thought, how wonderful, the seals are here, they are back, I thought they had gone forever, and so many I can't even count them! No wonder Anax is excited! He slackened his pace, striding down the hill through the thick wet grass. He thought, I must stop Anax from barking, he'll frighten them, he never barked at them before. He called out, ‘Anax!' fruitlessly into the wind. Then he saw something else. Something like a human person was in the sea too, in the chaos of the breakers, no, now beyond them, overwhelmed by the huge waves, disappearing from view. At that moment Anax rushed forward and leapt his high leap over the top of the next breaking wave – and he too vanished. Bellamy ran, crying out, stumbling down the steep way, through old dead bracken and gorse bushes, hearing himself gasp and moan as he ran, then over the cropped grass onto the stones, the big wet stones shifting under his boots, clambering over the rocks, then over the slippery seaweed onto the sand which was strewn with smaller stones. He stopped, panting, hearing now the deafening
cracking
sound of the breaking waves, seeing nothing except the chaos of waters ahead. He threw off his encumbering overcoat and crossed the sand and entered the sea, stepping awkwardly, clumsily, concentrating on continuing to stand up. Water came pouring into his boots, he was walking upon sand, stopping at every step as he advanced, meeting the repeated violent blows of the breaking waves, hearing himself calling, crying out into the tearing wind, his mouth filling with sea water. There was no question of swimming, if he lost his balance he would drown. He concentrated on standing, then beginning to retreat as he felt then the strong fierce receding water clawing away the sand from under his feet. He knew of nothing now but survival, not losing his balance, not being able to
walk –
then his legs gave way and his arms were without force and the sea took him and he saw above him the inner hollow of the tall wave breaking over him and he saw its dome of translucent green light as he fell backwards under it, choking with water, experiencing death. The next moment he found he was still alive, scrabbling in the ferocious undertow. He saw something near him, something round, something dark, tumbling for a moment in the boiling foam which awaited the next wave. He reached out towards it, taking hold of something, a sleeve then an arm, he tried to find his legs again, then found, as the water struck his back, that he was kneeling in the sand. He crawled frenziedly, still holding on to the human arm, then managed to rise to his feet. As he recalled it later, that rising was like to a resurrection, perhaps what the risen dead would feel at the end of the world. He advanced, pulling the child, for that was what he had realised it was, behind him like a heavy sack, dragging it up the slope out of the violent beating waves, out of the power of the sea. And he thought, as he remembered, even then,
Anax has drowned
trying to save a child, and tears came into his eyes, and he felt their warmth upon his cold cheeks. He sat down upon the wet sand with the thing beside him, and thought, for he imagined the child must be a boy, and
he
's dead too. He tried to command his breath and to remember what one is supposed to do when someone is drowned, get the water out of their lungs, then breathe into their mouth, or something. He was still crying and sobbing as he sat up, then knelt to see what could be done. At that moment Moy moved and uttered a faint groan, then opened her eyes, and Bellamy recognised her. She was breathing. He stood up and looked back at the sea. There was no sign of Anax. Bellamy uttered a terrible cry of anguish which the wind tore away, blowing it away with the wind-swept seagulls and their stormy shrieks. Then he saw a long grey form crawling out of the chaotic foam and the wildly running shallows and onto the beach, then standing up and shaking itself. He knelt down again beside Moy. She was panting and trying to sit up, he lifted her a little and supported her against his knee.