Текст книги "Summon the Bright Water "

Автор книги: Geoffrey Household

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Summon the Bright Water

Geoffrey Household

CONTENTS

Map

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter One

I have returned. Now that the forest has again closed over me I feel that I am welcome, that under the dense mysteries of vegetation must be the answer – well, not the answer but a readiness to sense what it should be. One cannot live here without the genes of far-distant ancestors responding. I see in myself some resemblance to a werewolf. When I have to appear by day I am a good and reputable citizen whose name is not unknown in learned circles; by night I am a prowler under the oaks, determined to find out why I was worth killing. Why was I so important? Which of his precious secrets, mostly bogus but one undeniably solid, did he suspect I might discover?

And discover where it is, what is its date and what its source I will. Meanwhile, I wish to prepare a record of events which will explain my own actions and serve as the basis of my defence if I am run in on a charge of murder and, perhaps, of burglary.

When I was safely on the bank after the fight with the Severn for my life and wondering why Simeon Marrin should have encouraged me in what he must have known was sheer suicide, I remembered having told him that nobody knew where I was. So it was safe to kill me. But instead of storming back to him in justifiable fury I chose to remain dead. That decision – so far as I can analyse myself in this dark shelter of dead twigs and broken brick, to which I have now returned, was due to indignant curiosity. I had a better chance of discovering the truth if I didn’t exist.

My dear policeman, if my movements begin to demand investigation – unlikely, but one never knows – no doubt you will first enquire how I earn my living and will be told that I am an economic historian. My specialty is the study of ancient economies. That is a side-line which will not interest you. It should, and I will go into it later at more length.

The first cause of my being in the Forest of Dean when I was supposed to be in Spain was sheer exasperation. I was about to fly to Seville. When the plane was ready to take off, one engine started to flame. The aircraft was removed to workshops and the passengers to a foul hotel of computerised luxury. Most of the following day was spent fuming in the passenger lounges of Heathrow. In the evening we were told with the usual self-righteousness that the flight was cancelled and that another night would have to be spent at that imperial caravanserai of the damned. I cleared out and returned to my flat. Instead of exploring the banks of the Guadalquivir, decently dressed and equipped, I decided to explore those of the Severn in marching order with a pack on my back, my feet being more reliable than airline timetables. I had long wanted to see for myself whether there was any possible site for a Roman port on the east of the estuary, though I did not intend a serious investigation, only a solitary, enjoyable walk with a good excuse for it.

And so, you see, if by bad luck you have become interested in the name of Piers Colet, all his friends will have told you he is in Seville. I must admit it looks like meticulous planning, but it was not.

As you know – or would know if you belong to the Gloucester or Bristol police – the roads on the east of the Severn Sea are for the most part a mile or two away from the water, and little can be seen but the meadows and the sea wall. The only way to carry out a close examination of the sands and channels is to walk along the embankment until stopped by a muddy pill (as Gloucestershire calls the outlet of a stream), to strike back to the nearest bridge, jumping or failing to jump the drainage ditches, and then return to the estuary and repeat the process. On the face of it a boat would seem more practical, but the channels are not easy. Set out on the flood after the Severn bore has passed up river, and you will see no more than a full and swirling estuary. To the eye it is as majestic as the great seaway of the Thames, yet there may be less than a fathom of water under the keel, and it is said to be possible – though not advisable – to walk across from bank to bank at low tide and stay dry above the knees.

No, the only course for a historian seeking a worked block of stone which might once have belonged to a quay is to walk, to wade and to call for advice at a village pub or the isolated cottage of a salmon fisherman. I have no doubt that navigation was just as tricky two thousand years ago, let alone the fact that a port on the east bank would have served no known purpose.

After crossing the Severn Bridge, I spent the night at Beachley and next day started up the west bank where Romans loaded the iron from the Forest of Dean in their ports of Woolaston and Lydney, already well known and partly excavated. So I was more sightseer than explorer, but again I left the road to follow the river where it was possible. That was not often, for the lanes down to the tideway are few and the embankment is pierced by deeper pills than on the east, fed by streams running down from the dark line of the forest.

Outside Blakeney, when I must have covered all of twenty miles, I stopped at a pub and drank a pint of excellent perry, tempted to try this product of the orchards of ancient pear trees between the road and the Severn. The pub did not let rooms and I asked the landlord if he could recommend anywhere else, not too far away, where I could stay the night. True disaster can only spring from such natural questions which lead so innocently to the unforeseen. I wish to God that I had never asked that question. Well do I? If I hadn’t I should never have met Elsa.

‘There’s the guest house at Broom Lodge,’ he replied. I detected a slight note of doubt in his voice. It married with my own doubts. I do not like places called guest houses. The food is usually awful and the proprietor either discourteous or painfully hearty.

‘What’s it like?’ I asked.

‘It’s a farm,’ he said. ‘Communist they calls it.’

‘Communal, Dad,’ his daughter corrected him.

‘Aye. Sort of monastery, like. And they run a guest house where anyone is welcome if he’s presentable.’

‘A Catholic monastery?’

‘Not they. Not church nor chapel neither. But I hear it’s bloody religious one way or another.’

It sounded as if it might be a refuge for some crazy Christian sect or Zen Buddhists or one of the offshoots of Hinduism involving meditation and milk, but my curiosity was aroused. I am always eager to understand how a commune of inefficient farmers can produce enough food to feed themselves and their families. The usual answer is that they can’t, and consequently return to the rat-race. But when they can, an analysis of their organisation often has something to teach us of the past and possible future.

The landlord gave me exact directions for a short cut to Broom Lodge. After a mile of road through scattered cottages, never grouped into anything one could call a village, I came to a green bridle path through the Forest. The great oaks shut out most of the sky and all the activities, themselves silent enough, of the grasslands. There was no undergrowth but the miniature jungle of young shoots of bracken, from which sheep once appeared and crossed the path, apparently unattended and unconfined by any fence.

Reaching a road, I turned left as directed and arrived at the drive leading to Broom Lodge. It was a long, white house of two storeys built in the early nineteenth century, with many modern outbuildings, and shut in by the Forest on three sides. The front faced open country to the south-west and commanded a distant view across the river to Sharpness Docks, where little ships bound for Gloucester thankfully abandoned the estuary and entered a canal.

There was no one about but a young man who was digging up the tulips and putting in bedding plants. He was very pink and white, bare to the waist of his muddy corduroy trousers and did not look as if gardening was his normal task. His clean-shaven, demure face and unsteady blue eyes suggested a curate attending to the vicarage garden. When I told him that I had heard that travellers could be put up for the night, he agreed fervently that they could. Yes, yes they could. Indeed they could. Someone would come out shortly to receive me. At the moment the management was in conference.

This unexpected echo from the commercial world amused me; it also suggested that here might be a commune efficiently run. A home-made bench of oak on the well-kept lawn faced the front door and there I sat waiting for the religion to turn up.

It came out, slender, tall and commanding. She looked just right for an abbess in spite of sweater and slacks, with large eyes and a full-lipped mouth in a serene oval face. She might, I thought, lack piety, but not discipline.

I introduced myself, explaining that I was on a walking tour of the tidal Severn and so had no more baggage than the small pack on my back. She was kind enough to say that I was just the sort of person they liked to entertain, and led me off to a recently built annexe, extending from the main house into the Forest, to show me the visitors’ accommodation.

It was simple: a white-washed cell with a comfortable bed, a table and an armchair. There were four or five other cells opening out of the passage, and at the end of it a fine, tiled washroom with showers and lavatories. She hoped I would join the community for supper. I should come along to the bar when I was ready.

I was glad to hear that there was a bar. The atmosphere of mixed simplicity and affluence puzzled me. It did not fit the pattern of a large farm which ran a guest house on the side. Monastic rule must come in somewhere. Indeed I might have dropped in at a medieval abbey famed for its hospitality. The handsome young abbess had mentioned no charge for bed and breakfast.

Having made myself as presentable as I could, I returned to the entrance hall of the main building. Double doors wide open gave me a sight of the refectory, arranged like a school or college hall with a high table and two short wings. Across the way was the so-called bar, which more resembled a small party in a country house with the host serving drinks from a white-clothed sideboard and his guests scattered about. The abbess, who had changed into a black robe with a curiously heavy gold brooch beneath one shoulder, came forward to greet me and led me to the dispenser of alcohol and wisdom.

‘This is my uncle, Simeon Marrin, and this is Major Denzil Matravers-Drummond, another of our guests.’

This first meeting with Marrin failed to give me any clear impression of the man. Tall and thin, but with chest and arms well developed, he could have been a somewhat ascetic clergyman in his forties who, say, had rowed for his college in youth. His grey eyes were large and far apart, like those of his niece though not as calm. Power, yes. I cannot be sure, but I think I sensed that. In any case it was not long before I did.

The major was of a very different species – older, preoccupied and with a nervous trick of raising his hand to pull at a moustache which no longer existed. One could hazard a guess that, like many retired military men, he was busy catching up with obscure intellectual interests – a likely type to fall for whatever Broom Lodgism was. The odd score of colonists sitting or standing about the room were mostly young men and women, healthy and attractive. But among them was a minority who fitted my expectations, satisfied with their own salvation and looking as if they had just returned from a psychiatrist who had successfully excised another piece of individual character. It seemed odd that all these were bald.

We trooped into supper. I had been placed between Simeon Marrin and his niece Elsa. On Marrin’s other side was the major who, I gathered, had visited Broom Lodge on several occasions. The rule seemed to be that one stiff drink or a sherry was permissible before the meal. At table one was offered a soft drink or a mug of cider or perry from the Severnside orchards.

‘How did you hear of us, Mr Colet?’ Marrin asked.

‘From the landlord of the inn at Blakeney.’ I told him how I had been walking down the left bank and up the right bank of the Severn Sea with a vague interest in Roman ports.

‘Are you an archaeologist?’ Elsa asked.

‘No, an economist specialising in ancient history. Archaeologists find and uncover the buildings. I want to know how the people who lived in them had enough to eat.’

‘Ah! Ancient agriculture, what!’ the major exclaimed. ‘Just the man for you, Simeon! Now, Mr Colet, tell us how the Egyptians could afford to take such a mass of labour off the land to build pyramids and still feed the people. What?’

Such an invitation to talk inevitably made me commit the crime of lecturing at dinner. I addressed myself mostly to Elsa, and not only from curiosity. When she was interested her face lit up and I realised for the first time that she was extremely attractive. As a concession to the formality of the evening meal she had let loose the ash-blonde hair which, when I first saw her, had been coiled in a severe bun.

So I replied that the major was right in supposing that one of my subjects was subsistence agriculture. For example, I could understand how such a commune as Broom Lodge just managed to feed its colonists, but I should be fascinated to learn how it produced surplus value, as it obviously did.

‘I will show you round tomorrow, Mr Colet,’ Marrin said.

The subject was promptly dropped. Elsa broke the respectful silence by asking about Roman ports on the Severn. I explained that on the east bank there were apparently none. If one were found it might suggest new aspects of the imperial economy: transport of slaves and rations for example. The ports on the west bank represented straightforward capitalism – mining of iron in the Forest of Dean and direct shipment to the Continent.

‘Some say gold, too,’ the major remarked. He bent forward across Marrin as if eagerly awaiting a reply.

‘A tradition with no truth in it,’ Marrin interrupted. ‘Geologically it is most unlikely. But that hasn’t stopped prospectors searching for it from time to time.’

I look back now at that first mention of gold. The thread of gold runs through the mysterious tapestry of Broom Lodge. I see it again and again appearing on the surface but still forming no recognisable or believable design.

My first impression of the colonists was that they were a hard-working bunch, starry-eyed or not, who knew the figures for profit and loss on their various enterprises but seemed vague about those for the whole commune. Pigs were the mainstay. Broom Lodge had ancient and extensive rights of common in the Forest, and the pigs were free to wander and stuff themselves with acorns in season. Superior flavour had won the colonists a London market for the products of the smoke-house. They were also breeding back to the wild boar since there was a demand, mostly from the Continent, for its meat.

However, the pigs, a flock of sheep – also benefiting from common rights – and a hundred acres of arable could not possibly give a return to keep some thirty men and women living in civilised comfort. By the time I was off to an early bed it was obvious to me that Simeon Marrin was subsidising the colony from income or capital. Why? The propagation of his gospel, whatever it was, had to be the answer.

In the morning, walking round the estate with him, I saw that his hospitality must be even more generous than I had supposed. The commune turned out to be a training centre, and the training was nothing like so efficient as the farming. We started off in the wheelwright’s shop, where two married couples were hard at work on wagon wheels and more delicate jobs for dog-carts and buggies. They must have had some practical lessons elsewhere but now were following drawings and diagrams. A finished wheel, though smartly painted and with professional slender spokes, was to my eyes very slightly oval.

The next call was at the smithy. Four of the bald men were forging simple tools and wrought iron. I looked more closely at them and saw that they were tonsured. Then we came to a carpenter’s shop with a primitive lathe worked by pedals. There, two colonists were also tonsured, and still another was the young gardener who had received me on arrival, making seven in all.

Last was a sailmaker’s loft where three women were stitching away. I was not able to judge their mastery of the craft, but I couldn’t help remarking that the Severn seemed the last place for a carefree yachting holiday.

‘Man sets out upon great waters, Mr Colet,’ Marrin said in priestly tone.

‘But all these things you could buy well under the cost of home production.’

‘It is of course a waste of labour which should be employed on the land; but to be self-supporting is not the only object of my colony.’

My colony. Not our colony. Well, that was what I suspected. He financed Broom Lodge and almost certainly owned it.

‘And the other object?’ I asked.

‘A certain continuity. I feel that as a researcher into the past of mankind you may possibly understand our planning for the future.’

That sounded as if Broom Lodge was more concerned with bodies than souls, and I was prepared to listen. A future in which small communities feed themselves while the silicon chip does the rest is at least worth analysis for fun.

‘Do you, I wonder, agree with us that our civilisation is doomed?’

‘Not in the near future.’

‘Near or far does not matter, for after death there is no more time. And reincarnation, do you believe in that?’

‘I put it among the more improbable possibilities.’

‘But not impossible?’

I replied that nothing was impossible, that our ignorance was complete and had to be.

‘Not complete. All of us here remember something of past lives.’

An ancient and venerated faith. It seemed reasonable cement for holding together a community of believers.

‘Past lives – they always seem to me so suspiciously romantic.’

‘We are aware of that, Mr Colet. The human mind must be allowed its little vanities. What matters is the memory of service, conscious or unconscious. I will give you a hypothetical example from yourself. Let us say that you were a quantity surveyor – as we should now call it – at Tyre. You were able to tell the merchants what it would cost to build the causeway joining the island to the mainland and on your estimate they could base their decision. You remember nothing of it, but your interest in the economy of ancient harbours remains.’

Right up my street! But I doubt if the trade figures for Tyre can even be conjectured. However, it would be an amusing exercise for a wet Sunday afternoon.

It was a brilliant example of what he meant, and I told him so. As intimacy was growing, I ventured to ask him what service he himself remembered.

‘It may have been I who discovered that the gold which oozed from nuggets in the fire could be made to take any shape that the craftsman wished. Or it may be that the liquid gold, easiest of metals, led me to try the smelting of copper and tin. I cannot be sure and it is not important. Our first belief is in reincarnation. Our second is that service to man is what is remembered. Our third is that we must prepare for such service.’

I objected that if, say, an expert in genetic engineering were to be reincarnated with his memory of service, it would be only a nightmare when the technology to use his science didn’t exist.

‘That is why we stick to the most primitive crafts – the wheel, the lathe, the sail and the working of gold.’

That was a craft I had not been shown. I took him to be quite sincere. I now know that he is not only sincere but fanatically possessed. Murder for the sake of religion has never been a problem for the fanatic. Look at Hindu and Mohammedan in India or the bloodthirsty sects of the Middle East or, nearer to our own cultural aberrations, that fellow Jones who fascinated his entire colony in Guyana into committing suicide.

‘You envisage that sooner or later we are bound to return to a neolithic era?’

‘Exactly. As Einstein said, the fourth world war will be fought with stones and clubs. Then it is time for the teachers of agriculture and worship who later are remembered as gods. We are training to be those gods.’

A shattering conception! But given the highly dubious premises, the conclusion follows. I wanted to ask him about the worship, but before I could do so he said very cordially, ‘Stay with us as long as you like. My niece and I will be delighted.’

I thanked him and replied that I would indeed like to see more of their commune.

Both of them had a disturbing charm, disturbing because it defied analysis. Elsa, I found, always wore the black robe when on her many duties in the house. The sweater and slacks in which I had first seen her were for farm and garden.

That afternoon and evening, helping to turn the hay and mixing with the colonists afterwards, I encouraged them to consider me as a possible convert and to talk freely. All the details of their bizarre faith are irrelevant to my narrative. Mostly they seemed fairly orthodox theosophists, speaking of the body as a temporary illusion. Meanwhile, the illusion worked nobly at filling wheelbarrows with unsuitable clay for making bricks.

This core of solid Englishmen and a few women greatly respected Simeon Marrin. The Freedom of the Forest meant to them something more than the ancient rights of free miners and of shepherds who owned flocks but no land. It was as if this outpost of the oaks between the Severn and the Welsh Marches formed for them a spiritual island where the inexorable Wheel – a pleasanter name than the rat-race – forgot to turn, and left body and soul at peace with each other. One of the busy haymakers put it very well. ‘I love the Forest,’ he said. ‘I would like to become a tree.’ I don’t know whether adepts of theosophy consider a tree as a possible stopping place on the way up or down, but now that the trees share my bed in silence and, without eyes, see from their topmost branches moonlight on the shoals of the Severn, I appreciate what he meant.

Besides these honest colonists who found a spiritual peace among the oaks without worrying overmuch about past and future lives, there was this inner circle of tonsured mystics. They had a courteous habit of inclining their heads whenever they met Marrin, and he acknowledged their bows gravely as a high priest among his people. Nobody commented on this, accepting that they had an arcane reason of their own for such respect. I was told that they followed a tradition which descended from the Druids, who also believed in the transmigration of souls. I wish that Roman historians could have told us how the doctrine travelled from the east to the mists of the Atlantic.

After dinner Marrin took me to his own quarters at the back of the western wing, where he had a formal estate office on the ground floor and above it a workshop which was far from formal, approached by open stairs from the office. It was a circular room, contained in a squat but imposing tower, with windows high up in the wall. In the centre was an electric furnace and a long laboratory table with a number of crucibles and all the usual equipment. Cabinets held a range of cream-coloured ceramic pots, each marked with its chemical symbol. I noticed mercury, lead and sulphur. There were skeletons of a large salmon and a small Severn-caught dolphin. A third skeleton, standing on its own pedestal, was of some four-footed long-tailed beast, covered with a carapace. I guessed that it was a species of turtle. The whole display was slightly theatrical. I mentioned that his laboratory resembled an alchemist’s den.

‘I know it does,’ he replied, ‘but that is inevitable when I am experimenting with gold and its alloys. Also, I am studying the development of life in the water and all its implications. The tideway of the Severn has much to offer the mystic, from the lamprey, most primitive of fish, to the leaping, splendid salmon and the muscles of its tail.’

‘And the turtle,’ I asked, ‘if it is one?’

‘Oh, he was put in for fun! Since the place looked like an alchemist’s den, as you called it, I made a proper job of the decorations.’

Much later when I was puzzled by the gold and its origin it occurred to me that there was no better disguise for the alchemist than admitting to a stranger that he amused himself by pretending to be one.

He opened a velvet-lined drawer and showed me some of his work: bracelets, pendants and ash trays like little scallop shells, which were delicate enough for the butt ends of a millionairess. He had a genius for pure form rather than decoration. When I praised his simple and effective taste, he obviously thought that I had chosen the right words and was pleased.

‘Form!’ he said. ‘Yes, form is essential for craftsmanship, but not enough. There must also be inspiration.’

He hesitated and then added almost reluctantly, ‘Mr Colet, I cannot resist showing you what I mean.’

I had noticed that between two of the windows was a short crimson curtain over a curved shelf. He pulled a string which drew back the curtain and exposed a casket of ebony and ivory with both the Cross and the Pentacle – an odd combination – engraved on the door. He drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the casket, revealing a two-handled vessel of gold. I had never seen anything like it, nor could I guess its function. It was too tall for an amphora or bowl and most resembled a cauldron, swelling out from the base and in again to a slight neck above the handles and below the rim. It stood about a foot high, with its smooth womb a little less. The curves of pure gold seemed to provide their own light and were as near perfection as any Chinese masterpiece of jade or porcelain. Since it was well above eye level I could not judge its weight, but felt sure he was justified in claiming to be inspired – certainly by some ancient style.

I had only time to exclaim my admiration before he shut and locked the casket, closing as it were all further comment. I didn’t attempt any. I came down to earth and asked him if he had a market for such pieces.

‘Yes. Every so often I go up to London with my wares and sell them. If buyers do not think them saleable they can always melt them down.’

In that case he could not make a profit after buying his gold, but I gave the question no further thought. Profit was of no importance if he were only training himself and preparing a memory which, according to him, would be preserved from one existence to another. An absurd faith, but no madder than some. At least it was service which was remembered, not the erotic adventures of some oriental princess.

Verging on comedy rather than mystery was the spiritual pilgrimage of Major Matravers-Drummond. Since he was the only other guest, and his room was next door to mine, we were able to relax together at the day’s end with his private bottle of whisky. He was Gloucestershire born and bred, with his home in a valley of the dark line of the Cotswolds which closed the eastern horizon across the river. Retired from the Household Cavalry, he had taken to religion and even entered a seminary to be trained as a parson.

‘Threw me out, Piers! Quite right too! My view of eternity was too far from the Book of Revelations.’

‘But what are you doing in this nest of reincarnationists when you are an earnest Christian?’ I asked.

‘I search, old boy. Look on me as a wandering friar! If Simeon chooses to believe that he is training to be a human god, I don’t argue. At bottom he and his disciples long for ways of life that have been lost. No harm in that – I do myself. Started as a child. Something in me is still a British Roman of the age of Arthur, watching Christianity and civilisation collapse around him.’

I could understand that. Brought up on those rich and gentle hills, surrounded by the shards of Roman villas and travelling still by Roman roads, an obsession with the farming, the fighting and the decaying towns at the end of the Empire was natural enough.

‘And you think that collapse will come again?’

‘If it is the will of God. All I feel is great sympathy with the past, which might be memory.’

As bad as the rest of them, I thought. He’s going to tell me that he rode with Arthur’s cavalry which smashed the Saxons at Badon and became – though no one knows why – a legend.

‘And what were you?’

‘I am. That’s all. No beginnings, no ends. After death one is present both in past and future. Sometimes in life too!’

A bold and compassionate man he turned out to be, but at that first intimate chat with him I feared he was too preoccupied with the violence of his former profession and more likely to have been a carrion crow than a proconsul. He had no patience with the druidical drop-outs who showed such exaggerated respect for Marrin.

‘Druids! Pah!’ he snorted. ‘You say you’ve seen his golden chalice. What do you think of it?’

‘Remarkable workmanship.’

‘Blasphemy – that’s what I think of it! Some of those chaps believe that Simeon has remade the Grail!’

I couldn’t at first see what he meant. If the Grail ever existed, it couldn’t be remade. But yes, he said, it could. It was the holiest symbol of Christianity after the Cross. Its spiritual meaning was eternal. Its physical form could be fashioned again and again.

‘I suspect those fellows use it in vile heathen rites,’ he exclaimed.

My Arthurian major was of course tempted to dream of Marrin’s cauldron as the Grail, but it seemed to me that his logic was just as fantastic. If the Grail was an eternal symbol of human longing, the heathen could benefit from its power as well as anyone else. For the first time it occurred to me – then only as a flight of fancy – that the cauldron could be older than the traditional Grail and the memory of it perhaps the origin of the myth. In that case Marrin had not made it, but found it.

I stayed on at Broom Lodge. My interest was not only in subsistence agriculture and monastic industry. I dislike writing of the other interest, for details would be in the worst taste if they became public. But this confession is for the police, should it ever be necessary for me to defend myself. Otherwise it will be seen only by the red squirrel which has discovered me and suspects that I turn over the white leaves of my notebook to look for nuts. He at least will forgive me if I show my delight in love under the oaks.