John Powys - Ducdame

“What’s that?” said Rook. “Can you see fortunes in it, Betsy?”

“Fortunes!” snorted the crone contemptuously. “You can see the Will of God in it, Squire Ashover!”

The man bent down over this microcosmic symbol of the world he found so hard to handle, and stared fixedly and rigidly into its irised depths. Violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red — they were all held in faint solution in the rondure of that prismatic orb.

Betsy stood in front of him, waiting patiently. She did not ask him “if he saw anything.” She leaned her hands upon the table and half-closing her eyes swayed a little, backward and forward, humming some obscure gibberish underneath her breath.

Then Rook did actually begin to see something. Whether it was a phantom of the mind, “a false creation proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain,” or whether a flawless crystal of that particular kind has the power — as yet unverified by science — of reflecting thoughts as well as objects, the fact remains that he saw the figure of Netta bending over something.

What was it she was bending over? Her head was lowered so that he could not catch the expression on her face; but the feeling he got from what he did see of her was sad without being hopelessly unhappy. It was calm and quiet.

“What is she looking at?” he muttered aloud.

The old woman above him took no notice of his words; but her hummings and mumblings increased in volubility. Then he became aware of what it was that this image of his ill-used mistress gazed at so calmly. It was himself — the form of Rook Ashover — and it lay hushed and white and still in a coffin of dark-coloured wood.

For a seconder two longer he looked at this picture in the crystal; and as he looked a great wave of unalterable peace and happiness passed over him.

So deep and convincing was this sensation that when the figures finally faded away and he lifted up his head he experienced that sense of irrational fretfulness and irritation such as people feel when they are awakened suddenly out of a restorative and dreamless sleep.

He poshed the table away and stretched himself. His very muscles felt as if he had just been aroused from a prolonged slumber. He yawned and scowled crossly; stretched out his arms again and muttered: “Ay! ay!” in an intonation of petulant querulousness.

Betsy Cooper took not the least notice of what he was doing. She removed the mat. She took down an old clay pipe from a bracket nailed to the wall and filling it with tobacco sat down upon a chair to smoke. A thin sun-moted stream of light that had found an entrance between curtain and window frame turned her mummy-like face into gleaming gold and the smoke of her pipe into pontifical incense.

Rook rose to his feet and stood over her. He felt drugged and stupid and absurdly childish.

“Where did you get that thing from?” he asked, in a fussy, matter-of-fact, disparaging tone.

Betsy took the pipe from her mouth and stared at him with the slow, patient, satiric stare of thousands of years of sunburned, rain-bleached wisdom.

“’Tis the Cimmery stone,” she murmured.

He began walking up and down that small interior like a wild animal in the presence of his tamer.

“What Cimmery stone?” he demanded abruptly, standing in front of her again.

“From Cimmery Land, Squire,” she answered quietly. “And that be the land where folks do live like unborn babes. They don’t see nothink, nor hear nothink, in thik place, except what be like the smoke of this ’ere pipe; and when them folks do talk ’mid theyselves it be like the turning of Miller Cory’s girt wheel — mum, mum, mum — where us can hear the drumming of wonderful green water and where millstone be all moss-mumbled and wheel be all hart’s-tongue ferns! ’Tis real wet rain, what’s finer than corpse dust, them folks do live under; and they tell I it be wonderful strange to see ’un walk and talk … mum … mum … mum … and thik mist all slivery and dimsy round ’un.”

As the old woman spoke Rook became quieter and his nerves less irritable. He could not catch the full import of what she said, but it soothed and calmed him. It was as though she were describing to him the god-like dwellers in some unearthly Limbo — some Elysian Fourth Dimension — out of Space and out of Time — where everything was, as it were, painted with gray upon gray; and where large and liberating thoughts moved to and fro over cool, wet grass like enormous swallows, easily, naturally, without any effort; thoughts that were made of memories and of hopes, and never of logic or of reason; thoughts that came and went under a thin, fine, incessant rain that itself was composed of the essence of memory, the memory of old defeated, long-forgotten gods whose only immortality was in this gray, cool, silent, sadly driven mist!

As he listened to the old woman and watched the smoke of her pipe floating up into the illuminated sun-ray where it broke at once into a hundred silver-blue undulations, it came over him that this Cimmery Land of which she spoke was the thing that he had so often vaguely dreamed of; dreamed of on lonely roads at twilight; dreamed of lying on his bed listening to the sounds of the morning; dreamed of under walls of old buildings in the quiet places of historic cities, when the noons fell hotly and the shadows fell darkly, and from hidden fountains came the splash of water.

Dreamed of! But never, until this moment, felt within his conscious brain, as something that out of the turbulent arena of life might actually emerge — emerge and establish itself — as this crystal had done, projected like a Bubble of Eternity from some great under-tide, beyond the reach of loss and longing and lust and loathing, beyond the reach of everything for which humanity has found a name.

His reverie was interrupted by strange sounds from the grass plot outside.

“Thik innocent be pestering me partners,” said the old woman, rising stiffly to her feet. “Best gie I them bank-notes afore ye leaves,” she added, screwing up her eyes and swallowing her thin lips till her face resembled a Chinese idol.

Rook put his hand in his pocket and drew out the two notes. The old woman took a bit of wood out of the unlit stove and a plain steel knife out of a drawer. She laid both these things on the table where the crystal had been, the former on the top of the latter. Taking the notes in her hand, she spat three times on them and spread them out upon the wood-and-iron cross which she had thus constructed.

“I’ll be off from troubling of thee any further, Squire Ashover,” she said. “And if I bain’t much mistaken thee and me will follow different ways here-to-come.”

By the time Rook arrived at Antiger High Mead his mother’s birthday picnic was in full swing.

The late afternoon sun cast long richly coloured shadows across that small hayfield. The haymakers had left their work to go to their tea and their half-filled wagon was standing under a large pale-leafed ash, its glossy chestnut-coloured horse, monumental as a statue in classic bronze, patiently munching a great heap of fragrant grass.

The three women were sitting with their backs to him so that Lexie, drinking his tea with epicurean satisfaction, his eyes missing nothing of the magic of that June day, was the first to see him approaching.

He came round from the western side of the field, so that his shadow, advancing before him, fell across the whole party and extended to the wheels of the wagon under the ash tree.

“There you are!” he cried in a half-jocose, half-reproachful voice, a voice that carried the nuance that they might have waited for him before actually beginning their repast.

“You’re late, Rook,” said his mother, turning her head and making room for him at her side.