Iris Murdoch - The Sandcastle

This was a crucial moment, since if the draw from the pack was contrary, or non-significant, the ceremony could not go on. Felicity knew from experience that she was able to interpret almost any draw in a way favourable to her designs. This was one of her psychic gifts. She was nervous all the same about what the pack might tell her. In relation to the Tarot Felicity had developed her own private symbolism. She had identified various figures in the pack with people that she knew, the more important people in her world appearing usually in two roles. Her father was the Emperor, and also the King of Swords. Her mother was the Empress and the Queen of Swords. Donald was the Juggler and also the Fool. She herself was the Queen of Cups. The mystic figure of the Pope represented the unknown person who was to appear one day to transform her life. The figure of the Papessa or High Priestess was her own transfigured personality, still distant from her and covered by a veil. For the purposes of the present ceremony Miss Carter was represented by the Moon Card and the Queen of Pentacles.

Felicity held in her hand only the cards of the Major Arcana and the court cards of the four suits. This reduced the chances of a meaningless draw. She cut the pack and then drew out five cards which she laid face downwards upon the rock. She paused solemnly, breathless. Then she began to turn the cards over one by one. She looked - and could scarcely believe her eyes. From left to right the cards she had drawn were these: the Empress, the King of Swords, the Broken Tower, the Hanged Man, and the Moon. This was extremely easy to interpret and very favourable to her ceremony. The centre card was always crucial. Here, Felicity took the Tower struck by lightning to symbolize the magical rite itself which was to divide her father from Miss Carter. Her father’s card and Miss Carter’s card were placed on different sides of the Tower. Her father appeared in his material guise as King of Swords, not in his spiritual guise as Emperor. The two women appeared in their spiritual guises. But her mother was placed next to her father, while Miss Carter was at the far end next to the Hanged Man. Felicity was not able to interpret the Hanged Man - but she decided that he didn’t matter. The omen was in any case extremely favourable.

She proceeded with the ceremony. The next act was to blow a long blast upon the supersonic whistle. This was the summons to the Spirit. The whistle was disconcertingly sonic at first, but as Felicity blew harder the note arose high and higher and disappeared. She looked round to see if she had frightened the cormorant. He was still there. She then very carefully took the matchbox which contained the beetle. He was a shiny black beetle, vigorous and healthy. She moved to the end of the triangle where the lamp lay, its light seeming brighter now that the sun had disappeared behind the headland, and she upended the box upon the rock. She then turned the beetle so that his head was towards the centre of the triangle and let him go. He started to walk. He was to determine the exact place where the rite was to reach its consummation. As if he knew what was required of him the beetle ambled along the rock and then stopped in a small depression not far from the image. Immediately Felicity began to squeeze her arm. A little blood emerged from the cut which she had made with the penknife. She mingled this upon her finger tip with a little of the milky brew and put a drop of it on the rock in front of the beetle. As he showed no interest in the offering Felicity very gently pushed his nose into it and put him carefully back into the matchbox. Then upon the place where the blood and milk were smeared she placed the warm saucepan of milk and oil.

Seizing the bottle of lighter-fuel, she poured a good quantity of it into the saucepan and then tried to set light to the contents. It refused to light. The match just went down sizzling into the greyish mixture. Felicity was frantic. The whole thing was going to go wrong at the last moment. She tried match after match. She was nearly in tears. Whatever happened, she must not ignite the image directly. At last she picked up one of the blackened laurel leaves and floated it in the saucepan. At the same time she picked up the image with the hazelrod fork. She applied a final match to the laurel. There was a quick flare, during which Felicity brought the image forward and held it full in the leaping flame. The flame died down at once; but the image had caught. Felicity had taken the precaution beforehand of soaking it thoroughly in lighter-fuel.

The image was burning fast. Felicity stepped quickly round the circle, keeping her feet inside the triangle, picking up the poppies and the wild roses which she then threw into the sea. The tide was coming in. Already the water was gurgling to and fro on three sides of the rock. The sun was almost hidden now and the outline of the land was purple and heavy. The moon was beginning to shine. It had become very small, a button of bright silver in a patch of greenish sky. It shone balefully down on Felicity. She stood, her eyes starting from her head, watching the image burn. A chill breeze blew from the sea, fanning the flames.

Nan was standing with her feet in the water. At low tide a layer of small pebbles was uncovered which lay beyond the sand. When they were wet they were multi-coloured and beautiful, but when they dried they all became grey. They hurt her feet a little, but she walked along, the very still water caressing her ankles. It came to the shore with scarcely a ripple. The tide must be on the turn. She looked out to sea. The sun was going down and covering its expanse with a spacious and tender light. The moon had just risen, with a big pale melancholy pock-marked face. There were not many people left on the beach now. She had hoped to find Felicity there, but there was no sign of the child. She seemed to be avoiding her.

Since her return to Dorset Nan had passed in her thoughts through a number of different phases. She had never reflected so much in her life. Her normal existence had not demanded, had even excluded, reflection. It had contained her firmly like a shell with every cranny filled. There had been problems, of course, and moments of decision, but Nan did not remember having felt any doubt ever upon an issue of importance. She had always understood, she had always known what to do — and when it came to persuading her husband to share her opinion,, the pattern of argument had been reassuringly familiar, as if it were continually the same discussion.

Now the pressure of reality upon her had been withdrawn, and she was left alone in the centre of a void where she had suddenly to determine afresh the form and direction of her being. It was only within the last two days, however, that Nan had really become aware of this aloofness of the world. She had come back from Surrey in a state of mind far from cheerful, but at least energetic and confident. She had occupied herself upon the journey with intermittent thoughts of Tim Burke. She had been deeply hurt to learn from Bill that Tim had known all about it - was perhaps even an accomplice as well as a confidant. Reflecting on this, Nan had a feeling in which she rarely indulged. She felt sorry for herself. Only once in all these years, years which had often been discouraging and dreary enough, had she stretched out her hand a little way towards another person - and she had been betrayed. She was sad, too, because she knew that with this a sort of fragrance, a streak of colour, was gone from her life. The thought that, although nothing passed between them, Tim Burke still cherished her in his heart had been, but now would be no longer, a refreshment to her. Later, however, Nan began to feel less extreme, more ready to forgive Tim for his knowledge, and less anxious to interpret it as a betrayal. It was then that she allowed the memory of how they had lain together in the armchair to come back fully to her consciousness. She remembered the scene in detail, and everything that Tim had said. She dwelt upon it. Already it was like remembering the remote past, something tender and sad and utterly cut off. Perhaps after all it was best for Tim to play his old part and for everything to be as before. Everything must be as before. The thought that it must and would be so was reassuring. She realized soberly how much she would have missed him.