Conrad Aiken: Great Circle

— one thing and then another one thing and then another the fresh wind the thickness the fine webs tender about the extended fingertips the dust sifting on the point of the shoe the cart track the car track the long glong trail into the sunset west of mountains purple gashes and the sun gone gloom and walking there walking westward with the solitary ghost above my head is this the bad sort is this the good sort where are you going and what do you mean why do you float there flow there just above my head to the right of my face avoiding the edge of my felt hat what is your precise shape old fellow and are you harmful I will turn away down this little muddy path look those trees there I will go down there swiftly I will run am running but the solitary ghost is still there this must be a bad one a ghost a ghost one of the white kind the cold kind the penetrating kind the thin and snowy kind o god shall I wake up in time will he enfold me chill me kill me SCREAM

one thing slower and then another thing slower it is a bulge a block a bulkhead a buttress of rock a wall there is a light there above it and a tree hanging over the light there was a face there but it is gone and I knew that face it was that girl no it was Susan no it was Doris no it was a Negress with gold hair no it was gold teeth grinning in the lamplight it is gone the wind comes evenly warmly slowly caressingly hums under the edge of my felt hat burns my left cheek and I am climbing among the sun-warmed rocks my hand is no warmer than these rocks is there a volcano under them will steam come out of the fissures will it all crumble and sink in it is crumbling and sinking crumbling and sinking and shaking my foot goes in my other foot I sink to my knees among warm disrupted rocks they are all falling apart and inward downward SCREAM

first second third fifth first second third fifth it is the fifth of forth the forth the forth and in the bed on the wall in the bed on the edge of the wall beside the lilac hedge beside the path between the two strange houses in this strange place and evening too or is it early morning in the bed ill or half awake I am lying here at a loss I should not be here and look there are people coming out of the other house three people three women no a mother and her two daughters and the path brings them close to my exposed bed shall I pretend to be asleep

But we don’t know the way to the beach

Shall we ask someone mother

But there is no one to ask

We might inquire at that strange house

Yes at that strange house what a queer house

Did you ever see such a house it’s a ruin

It has no wall on this side

And how dirty it is

Do you see how dirty it is

out of my bed then and running across the lawn and then slowing down so as to pass them not running and veering off from them toward the porch while they approach the side door they have not seen me I am safe I can get in without being seen I can get into this strange house where Bertha lives and all our children and all our relatives and the stove and the ice box and then they will come in and ask the way to the beach which is the way to the beach can you direct us to the beach

You must go through the village the little wooden village of a winding two-storied road and flagpoles and shingles and the white church I know the way well I have often been there it has a flat and washed look slightly crazy the houses are flimsy the beach is small the sea is cold

Can you tell us the way to the beach

Yes you follow this road to the beach

they didn’t see me in my bed on the wall beside the hedge although they came so close to me no they didn’t but here is sand on the floor filth and mud on the sitting-room floor and under the dining-room table the blood comes into my hands and face I am angry hit something it is all one room but there too is a door to the pantry and there is Magma standing

This room is dirty you must sweep it out Magma

Sweep it out yourself

Give me a broom

piles of sand under the table under the chairs along the walls on the sills heaped against the screen doors shavings too blocks dolls paper soldiers with wooden props toy cannons rags dirty clothes

This room is filthy you must clean it at once Magma

Clean it out

with the broom I am in the pantry and rush towards Magma the freckle-faced sister where is Bertha and where are the children but now we are in the corner of the sitting room again blood is in my hands and face and neck I am angry

I will not be made a Christian slave by the Berthas

What did you say

with the broom hitting the saucepan on her head crash have I killed her but she is moving away and the brothers and cousins lean silently closer to me press closer and lean closer on all sides five six seven evil faces hard faces American army faces tough mouths menacing

What was that you said

I will not be made a slave to the Berthas

Squads right

Give him the bootsit

Is it

Squads left

Out with him

It’s the wibbots what

this is that ghost again under the rim of my hat this is a dream is it the bad kind or the good kind shall I wake or not what will it be this squads right and bootsit tar and feathers hanging a beating and merciless men shall I keep still fight now or later SCREAM

peace on the left ear left hand peace

one shape and then another the little turmoils lead to big turmoils turmoils turmoils who said turmoils what is a turmoils this is the way to the this is the way and it is a clear landscape a clear cold landscape such as you saw in ice but far off cold and small the tiny splinters come out of it against my face there are splinters of ice stars fragments glass bright landscape against my face against my eye and now the glare must be a fire and in the mirror I see the reflection the little red bead from the unseeing eye it was those glass eyes on the little plush carpet all looking in different directions watchful and quiet how often do you wash them how often do you take them out can I do it myself must I use a lotion an eyewash and I am walking along the beach alone the little lonely beach is it Nantucket is it Plymouth is it Nantasket no it is somewhere else it is Melville it is Shakespeare it is the edge-beach the wild beach the beach where I shall see the octopus it is the end and far Bohemian seacoast

Go ahead and wait for me

I will go ahead and wait for you

I have something

Is it the what is it where

It is crying

alone I see it I step over the long black thick tentacles of a quivering celluloid jelly I am among them what if they should move seize me but it is really dead here on the sand it is quite dead I am sure it is dead o the poor thing it is dead shall I touch the tentacles with my stick shall I turn back and look at the body the corpse the crystal globe the bell-shaped body motionless on the wet hard sand with the tide going out it was left here by the tide and is dying look it is still alive look the eyes are watching me and what is that it is but don’t SCREAM it is a it is a quite the largest octopus I ever heard of vast enormous the enemy of Moby Dick WHITE too but look

Go ahead and wait for me

I will

o christ it has a man’s head inside the transparent jelly a man’s face a fine man’s head a magnificent face a face in aspic a head in aspic it is Michelangelo’s head in aspic and o god it is still alive the life is ebbing backward along the long lucid tentacles the tentacles which are drying on the sand and this face is watching them dry watching them die feeling them die watching the tide go out and see the agony on that face the lips contorted in hatred and scorn the eyes that watch you with malevolent godhead that watch the receding waves wtih horror and hatred it is conscious it sees you and despises you even in its death it does not want your pity or your help how can you help it what can you do it hates you anyway if you saved it even if you could save it even if you could cast it back in the sea it would want to kill you for it is more intelligent than you and knows it but what is it thinking now that it is dying what terrific thought is it thinking for the face is wonderful it is intelligence meeting death with a vast thought