Flying to Nowhere: A Tale Page 3

  ‘Not at all,’ replied the Abbot. ‘I understand the concern. But as I said before, a pilgrim is by definition one who has begun to make a decision to change his life. To seek change is very often, believe it or not, to achieve it. These good people may very well have gone elsewhere.’

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ said Vane. ‘William Evans states his intention of returning home.’

  ‘An innkeeper who cannot keep upright?’ smiled the Abbot. ‘Perhaps you are right and he would soon crawl back to such a liberal and ready supply of liquid oblivion. But I do not find a tipsy man a reliable witness. His remarks about my sermon, for example, reveal an inferior understanding.’

  ‘How?’ asked Vane.

  ‘The parable of the Devil as the excrement of the created world is a heresy that I was at pains to illustrate and then confound, for it is the opposite of my belief. William Evans must have succumbed to his dizziness at that moment. My sermon concluded with the assertion that the world is precious beyond our understanding, and that we are a part of it.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Vane, suspecting that it was in fact the Abbot’s belief that was heretical. ‘It remains part of my duty to investigate your arrangements for the pilgrims’ welfare and to ascertain the whereabouts of Evans and others like him.’ Their interview was concluded with Vane’s resolve to visit the well and the cemetery on the following day. The Abbot arranged for the provision of an ass and an accompanying novice, but excused himself from the visit on the grounds of the pressure of his duties, and, leaving Vane to the transcription of his interrogation of the novices, retired to his dissecting chamber.

  7

  The evening sun hung on the shoulder of the mountain and lit up the whole garment of the sea. The island seemed to float in darkness that sought the disappearing light. It was like a still voyage towards the shining edge of the world.

  After the bell for compline, the only sounds were the questionings and responses of sheep, ewe answering lamb as they grazed. But now and then came the hoarse rattling of a buzzard taking food to its young. Everywhere was still, except that among the grasses creatures whom the day had shut in with its invisible doors of heat came out blindly and inquisitively. Moths fluttered through air that seemed no thinner than their dusty wings, and even less substantial insects seemed to be suspended in the night warmth, aimless moths apparently designed only to reflect and magnify the smallest glimmer of the lost light.

  At the farm the youngest girls had long been in bed, for it was they who had to rise earliest in the morning to do the lightest work. The cleaning was theirs, and the feeding of animals and the baking of bread.

  But it was too hot to sleep. They lay unclothed on their beds in the long low loft under the eaves of the farm and made faces at the sloping ceiling.

  Sometimes one would talk, sending out words into the darkness that were not like the words of the daytime. The voice was not conscious that it belonged to anyone, only that there were ceremonies and speculations of the night to which everyone unconsciously contributed. There were stories, of all kinds. And on occasion, one of the girls might rise and run between the beds, as if to illustrate in half-dance the climax of a narrative, or simply to punctuate the slow advance of the night with a gesture, like that of raised arms and rotated wrists, which might lend it grace.

  ‘Gweno, Gweno,’ came a whisper.

  There was no answer at first.

  ‘Gweno!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell about the brothers at the pump.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on, why not?’

  ‘I’m dying.’

  ‘Are you dying, Gweno? I’m truly sorry.’

  ‘I’m wrapped up in a leaf very quiet and still. My legs are together and my arms are at my side, and I’m wrapped in a leaf and hanging from a tree on a thread, turning very slow.’

  ‘Is it painful, Gweno?’

  ‘No, it’s beautiful and there’s the breath of the wind turning me slightly. Can’t you feel it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said another voice. ‘I can feel it.’

  ‘Now the leaf is drying and crackling. It’s crumbling away.’

  ‘Are you crumbling away too, Gweno?’

  ‘No, no. It’s leaving me pure and new and now I’ve died and got wings and I’m flying away. Can’t you see?’

  Her fingers fluttered in the moonlight, and their shadows moved in the rafters.

  ‘Yes,’ came several voices. ‘We can see you flying away. Where are you flying to?’

  ‘I’m flying to nowhere. I’m just becoming myself.’

  There was another silence, a longer one.

  Then came another whisper.

  ‘Tetty, tell about the brothers.’

  ‘Tetty’s asleep.’

  ‘No, she isn’t!’

  Tetty was not asleep, but was holding the flowers of her breasts and filling them in her mind like filling cupped hands with the heaviness of spring water, trickling cool through the fingers. She listened to the voices in the dark.

  ‘Tom Barker, Long Rachel, Minnie Wilkin, Milly Larkin and Little Dick were all in the same bed one winter night and the blankets piled high. They had prayed to the Saint and blown out their five candles and they had one apple only to eat between five.’

  ‘Yes, yes! What then?’

  ‘There was a bumping sound on the roof. Like this: bump, bump, bump.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘They didn’t know what it was. So Tom Barker shouts out quickly: “Who’s there?” And a voice comes back: “It’s only the wind walking over the roof.” “Oh,” says Tom Barker. But then came the bumping louder and Long Rachel calls out to it: “What are you, then, bumping up there?” And another voice says: “It’s the clouds walking over the roof.” “Oh,” says Long Rachel.’

  ‘Aren’t they frightened?’

  ‘Yes, they’re very frightened. Very very very frightened. So they prayed again to the Saint. But then there’s more thumping up above, and so Minnie Wilkin says: “Who’s that, thumping on the roof?” And a voice says: “Nothing. Only the moon.” And they can hear a hissing sound move slowly over them like a great cold fire. Then there’s another banging and a clatter and Milly Larkin asks: “What’s up? What is it now?” And another voice replies: “It’s the stars passing by.” “Oh,” says Milly Larkin.’

  ‘Are they still frightened?’

  ‘They’re still very frightened, and they’ve all gone down in the bed. Then comes the loudest noise of all, a rumbling and a rolling and a smashing and a crashing all over the roof, and Little Dick whispers from the bottom of the bed: “Who’s there?” And a big deep voice replies: “It’s the Saint himself passing by, and herding the wind and the clouds and the moon and the stars before him, and all is well.” “Oh,” says Little Dick, and one by one they poke their heads out of the bedclothes again.’

  ‘The Saint will look after them, won’t he?’

  ‘He will, and they will look after themselves, too. Tom Barker turns to Long Rachel and Little Dick turns to Milly Larkin, and they all fall to kissing, but there’s no one for Minny Wilkin.’

  ‘How sad!’

  Tetty listened to the story and hugged her own bare sides in the dark like Minny Wilkin. Quiet minutes gradually filled the loft and for a while there was silence.

  Then came another voice, but a sleepy one.

  ‘Gweno, are you still flying?’

  There was only a sigh in reply.

  ‘Gweno, tell about the Saint. Tell about the Saint and the bird.’

  Then Gweno’s voice came quietly from her pillow.

  ‘Long long ago... a long long long long very long time ago...’

  ‘Yes, go on.’

  ‘Before the abbey was built, before the brothers came, before there was a farm...’

  ‘Was I here, Gweno?’

  ‘No, indeed you were not. There was nobody here at all. And the Saint came to the island from the sea and he set foot on the rocks and he walked on the shore
and it was hot then like it is now. The Saint was tired and thirsty because he had come a long way across the sea. Then he found a little bird in its nest which was as dry and weak as he was for lack of water. As dry as he was. Dry as dry... as dry as dry as dry...’

  ‘Go on, Gweno.’

  ‘And the Saint stamped on the rock with his foot and broke the rock open and a spring came out, all fresh clean water. And he took the bird from its nest for it was too weak to fly and put it by the spring and he let it drink as much as it could before he touched the water himself and when the bird had drunk from the spring it was quite better again and flew away happily. And the Saint stayed on the island and built the well over the place of the spring which became famous to all mankind.’

  Gweno’s voice trailed off sleepily, and by now most of the girls were sound asleep. But Tetty’s hands moved over her body as the waters against the island, wave upon wave, and they found the little bird in its nest and they too made it fly.

  Beneath their window was a fruit tree with a ladder sticking up through it into the moonlight, and the orchard stretched away down a gentle slope to a fence which kept out sheep. Beyond the fence was a path that led from the abbey to the harbour.

  While the girls were talking, Vane’s boy met the Manciple on the path. He was startled by the sudden appearance out of the darkness of this squat figure whose flat skull sat so low in his thrown-back cowl that he seemed almost headless. He was carrying something in a bag, too, which he twirled as he walked so that the weight of it spun at the end of his fingers. It might almost have been his own small head that he was carrying.

  ‘Where are you going to, boy?’ he asked. ‘Can’t hear you.

  What did you say? Come out with it. What’s your name?’

  ‘Geoffrey, sir.’

  ‘Well, Geoffrey?’

  ‘I was going for a walk, sir.’

  The Manciple grunted.

  ‘Licking pies, rather,’ he said mysteriously.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘ You’ll need a bag to catch coneys, boy,’ said the Manciple, swinging his own bag against Geoffrey’s breeches. The soft weight of it was unpleasant and made him twist aside.

  ‘How’s your bag, Geoffrey?’ said the Manciple. He seemed to be amused by this conversation and went on his way, swinging his bag and laughing like the sound of two rubbed branches grating in a wind.

  Geoffrey continued on his way to the harbour, looking down from the cliffs at the rocks below as he had done several times since they had first landed. He did not dare to go nearer. The horse could hardly be seen at first, but there was just enough moonlight reflected from the rocks to enable him eventually to make out its shape. He stared for a long time, until he was certain that the horse was now no longer moving its head.

  ‘Oh, Saviour!’ whispered Geoffrey. He was careful to prevent himself from weeping.

  8

  Early on the following morning Mrs Ffedderbompau fell out of a tree while supervising the picking of fruit. One of the girls had not been able to suppress a laugh as her mistress, missing her footing, had let out a great shriek and for one brief moment appeared to be reclining at sudden ease on her back in the middle of the tree. But a second branch snapped, and Mrs Ffedderbompau fell into the grass with a nasty thud.

  The girls were shocked, but one or two soon ran up to help her. She was carried into the farmhouse, moaning in pain, and put into her bed. Tetty was immediately sent to tell the Abbot what had happened. But though she pulled at his bell for six or seven minutes, he didn’t appear. She knew that the novices were not allowed to speak to her, and she was afraid to speak to them, even though two of them appeared together at the other end of the courtyard while she was standing at the Abbot’s door. After a while she returned to the farm, feeling that she would be more help there.

  The Abbot had woken early, with much on his mind. He was irritated by the investigations of Vane, which threatened not only to disturb his work but perhaps also to lead to changes in its very foundation. Suppose Vane, in his consideration of the efficacy of the holy waters, were irretrievably to damage the well? Might there be any action forthcoming from the Bishop as a result of anything adverse about its administration conveyed to him by Vane?

  The Abbot had slept on his right arm, and the pain of its numbness was what had awoken him. Turning carefully, he moved the dead arm with his left hand from under his body, laid it on his chest and slowly massaged the life back into it. What, he reflected, if life could be similarly given back to a dead body?

  What indeed was life? It was not the body, even though the body itself were preserved indefinitely. It was not motion, for motion could be suspended. Was it, after all, simply the spirit, whose location his long researches were designed to establish?

  The body was like a house, whose single inhabitant might be impossible at any one time to find. You could move from room to room, even on one floor or around a single stairwell, and be forever entering the chamber just vacated by the object of your pursuit.

  And what was this object? The Abbot had for a long time pursued it, but he could not say what it was. He dissected each part to understand its working, but finally each organ, each bone, each sustaining mechanism of tissue was revealed as little more than an empty room in a house that seemed to grow larger the more familiar you became with it.

  This was the house, indeed, that must according to the text in Matthew be guarded against the thief who might come at any hour, the least expected. Si sciret paterfamilias qua bora fur venturus esset, vigilaret utique et non sineret perfodi domum suam. But the Abbot had ceased to be much interested in sin, and the image of the robber in the house came to mean something other than the Devil. Wielding the knife and laying aside the skin in layers from the flesh and packed muscles, he often felt himself to be the unexpected intruder. And where was the householder? No longer vigilant, for sure.

  In his own house, the Abbot was not certain which role he played. Sometimes he walked half-purposefully, half with designed carelessness, through the passageways of one of the wings as though to establish his right to be there. But the extent of these corridors and the strangeness of unvisited rooms often perplexed him: it seemed to him like another house, not his own, in which he must necessarily be not proprietor but intruder.

  This feeling was increased by the real strangeness of some of the rooms he came across, rooms that he sometimes remembered using before and sometimes hardly felt that he had ever visited at all. He had only to turn left instead of the customary right on the third floor above his dining-room (at the head of the staircase that led from the anteroom to the dining-room, not the stairway by the fireplace) to find himself in a strangely dusty stretch of the house. He had been there unexpectedly just the week before, having taken the wrong turning without thinking, and had looked in fascination at rooms that had not been used since the days of his predecessor. He began by walking round the rooms, lifting the hangings and looking up chimneys and peering out of the tiny mullioned windows at unaccustomed views. Then he moved more quickly down the corridor, simply glancing into each room and if the door stuck hardly bothering to open it. His feeling was one of exasperation at not finding what he had come for, and then of perplexity when he reflected that he had not in the first place come for anything at all, but was wandering about by chance.

  And yet he still felt in pursuit of something, and the not finding it (or was it a suppressed fear that he might indeed unexpectedly find it?) sent him scurrying down the next staircase in the general direction of the parts of the house that he knew.

  Was the soul, he wondered, like this? A stranger in its own house?

  He woke each morning with these thoughts, and hastened from his offices at the earliest opportunity to conduct his researches. At the hour when Tetty rang on his bell he had descended to his library where he was conscious that no sound could disturb him through fathoms of stone. He had it in mind to consult the Arabic authorities on the nature and function of
the pineal gland, an organ which had naturally for some years been at the centre of his quest for the precise physical seat of the human soul.

  The library was situated beneath his study, and was reached from a hidden staircase leading from behind a wooden panel in a small oratory adjacent to the study. He had converted the room to its present purposes many years before, to be secure from prying eyes. It had been a cellar, or some such. He could not remember. His tuns of Bordeaux lay elsewhere.

  Being a cellar, and being damp, kept the books from drying and cracking, which he knew was a hazard. But their softness, the musty aroma and the fine organic bloom upon some of them gave him now and then cause for concern. He would take down a volume from one of the top shelves, little used (as he now did with the learned Avicenna), and find it clammy to his touch, almost as though the pores of the long-dead hide opened again and sweated at his touch.

  The fear of the guardians of the word to yield their secrets!

  The seat of the soul had to obey several conditions. Firstly it must be one; to the end that action of the same object that at the same time strikes two organs of the same sense should make no more than one impression on the soul, as for example, she might not see two novices carrying a bucket of water where there was only one. Secondly, it must be very near the source of the animal spirits, that by their means she might easily move the members. And in the third place, it must be moveable; that the soul causing it to move immediately might be able to determine the animal spirits to glide towards some certain muscles rather than others.

  Conditions nowhere to be met with but in the little gland called pineal!

  The pineal gland (or conarium) was situated between all the concavities of the brain, supported and encompassed with arteries which made up the lacis choroides.

  ‘It is that lacis,’ reflected the Abbot, hitching up his habit and resting one foot on the lowest shelf, ‘that we may be assured is the source of the spirits which, ascending from the heart along the carotides receive the form of an animal spirit in that gland, disengaging themselves from the more gross parts of the blood.’