The Spire

by William Golding

  He waited for a while, thinking. I will go out by the back way so that he won’t see me; and I shan’t have to see the stone hammer.

  Outside the door there was a woodstack among long, rank grass. A scent struck him, so that he leaned against the woodstack, careless of his back, and waited while the dissolved grief welled out of his eyes. Then there was a movement over his head so that for an instant he had a wild hope. He twisted his neck and looked up sideways. There was a cloud of angels flashing in the sunlight, they were pink and gold and white; and they were uttering this sweet scent for joy of the light and the air. They brought with them a scatter of clear leaves, and among the leaves a long, black springing thing. His head swam with the angels, and suddenly he understood there was more to the appletree than one branch. It was there beyond the wall, bursting up with cloud and scatter, laying hold of the earth and the air, a fountain, a marvel, an appletree; and this made him weep in a childish way so that he could not tell whether he was glad or sorry. Then, where the yard of the deanery came to the river and trees lay over the sliding water, he saw all the blue of the sky condensed to a winged sapphire, that flashed once.

  He cried out.

  ‘Come back!’

  But the bird was gone, an arrow shot once. It will never come back, he thought, not if I sat here all day. He began to play with the thought that the bird might return, to sit on a post only a few yards away in all its splendour, but his heart knew better.

  ‘No kingfisher will return for me.’

  All the same, he said to himself, I was lucky to see it. No one else saw it. At last he got to his feet and went out by the sideway to the close. He watched the dusty end of his stick and his feet moving slowly. I must look like an old crow, he thought, inching along and bent nearly double. Why do I go to find something that isn’t there? And even that’s too simple! I go for many reasons and they’re all mixed up. Father Adam was right. I make too much fuss among the appletrees and the kingfishers.

  When he came to the King’s Gate he rested on a convenient mounting block and examined the dust. But for all the feet that had trodden it, it remained ordinary dust, which seemed to make everything much sadder. So he braced himself and shuffled through the dust until there was the running gutter of the high street under his nose, with a naked child playing in it.

  He spoke to her.

  ‘Where is Roger Mason, my child?’

  Well now, he thought, who would have believed I could sound so much like an old man? But while he was thinking this, the child splashed out of the gutter and ran away. Then, since he had no other means of crossing, he walked through the gutter. He found the legs and waist of a man and spoke to him.

  ‘Where is Roger Mason, my son?’

  Someone spat from above him so that the spittle hung on the edge of his cloak. A voice spoke gruffly.

  ‘New Street.’

  The legs went away.

  He turned his stick and his feet to the right and made them move over the cobbles. New Street is very long, he thought; and when he thought that, it appeared to him that he could go no further. He peered round him for a mounting block but found none. Then he sank down by a wall of wattle and daub with his cloak covering him. He drew it across his face so that he was in a tent.

  But he felt the pressure of their presence even through the tent; and presently he looked out, to see the naked feet of children.

  ‘Where is Roger Mason, my children?’

  The feet went away, splashing in the gutter. A stone bounced by his feet. I had best go, he thought — go somewhere. So he laboured up by the wall; and immediately he remembered that Roger Mason would be in Letoyle. He crept along, his stick out to the left and a hand out to the wall on the right; and at last he saw the inn with the painted star on the sign and a mounting block outside. He sat breathlessly on the stone, saying to himself; It is just as well since I can go no further.

  ‘Roger Mason.’

  Feet went away and returned with more feet and he spoke to them, as before.

  ‘Roger Mason. Roger Mason.’

  At last there were woman’s feet among the rest, and the hem of a red dress. The woman cried out and talked busily; but her words were easy to ignore as always. I am sorry for her, he thought, but not much — just a little sorry. It is my deficiency that she has no part in my grief.

  Hands took him under the armpits and lifted him away from the block with his feet and his stick dragging. He saw a door approach, and stairs on which his feet touched one by one, while his stick went tap, bounce, tap. Then there was another door in comparative darkness, which swung open. Hands lowered him in a cloud of faintness to a settle, then went away and shut the door. He waited with his eyes shut for things to come back to him.

  The first thing that came back was a noise. It was a scraping, a tussing, a thing of breath and phlegm, and rhythmical. It opened his eyes for him; and there, on one side of the small fire, opposite to the window, was a great bed of crumpled linen with a bolster. Roger Mason lay in it on one elbow, fully dressed except for his boots. He was laughing endlessly out of his swollen face; and then his mouth was wider open, the laugh more like a shout, and he fell back, prone. Jocelin watched his chest moving up and down.

  Roger Mason rolled over, turning the bedclothes with him. He got heavily on one elbow again and grinned at Jocelin like a dog. There was sweat on his face. As Jocelin looked into the redrimmed eyes, he saw the face twist. Roger Mason turned his head sideways and spat inaccurately at the fire.

  ‘You stink like a corpse.’

  Jocelin examined the words and then a memory of the faces over his bed. It may be so, he thought, yes indeed, it may be so. He heard his voice echo the words in a foolish, old man’s voice.

  ‘It may be so Roger, it may be so. Yes indeed, it may be so.’

  Roger Mason leaned forward over his elbow. He sounded deeply satisfied.

  ‘They got you too.’

  He belched, and a red liquid ran down his chin.

  ‘It hasn’t fallen yet Roger. Father Adam told me so. He said it would fall some day even if we’d built it of adamant and anchored it to the roots of the earth.’

  The master builder began to heave on the bed. He wrenched his feet away from the clothes and staggered across the room. Jocelin heard him cursing and banging at the window. There came a crash, then the tinkle of glass. The master builder mouthed at the unechoing air.

  ‘Fall when you like, me old cock!’

  ‘There’s very little wind today, Roger. Enough to make the apple blossom dance.’

  The master builder came lurching back. He fell heavily on his knees by the bed, and pawed at it. He gave up, slumped sideways, and laughed again.

  ‘I like your stink, Jocelin. It does me good. I didn’t think there was much could do me good.’

  But Jocelin was away in some dream, out of which he answered absently.

  ‘I saw a kingfisher.’

  Then there were more feet, a red dress, talk, talk, talk. Roger Mason was being helped on to the bed again. The voice came and talked at Jocelin, left him and went back to the bed.

  ‘Don’t you understand, you great fool? They know he’s here!’

  Then the dress and the voice went away through the door. He looked across at the bed but could see little but a chest that went up and down, could hear nothing but gasp, pause, gasp.

  ‘Roger? Roger? Can you hear me?’

  Nothing but gasp.

  ‘Imagine it. I thought I was doing a great work; and all I was doing was bringing ruin and breeding hate. Roger?’

  He watched closely, but the only movement he could see other than the up and down of the chest was a slight quivering of one hand at each gasp. He turned his eyes away and watched the embers of the fire instead. They seemed brighter now, because shadows were creeping into every corner.

  ‘To love all men with a holy love. And then — Roger, can you hear me?’

  But Roger never stirred. Jocelin gave up the attempt and waited,
while the hand lay among the gasps, the fire brightened among shadows, and he examined the formless and inexpressible mass that lay in his mind.

  At last the figure on the bed stirred. Roger Mason lay slack, his head on the bolster, his face looking at Jocelin expressionlessly.

  ‘Well. Here we are, the two of us.’

  ‘It’s not true the old don’t suffer. They suffer as much as the young and they’ve less capacity to deal with it.’

  ‘Big talk.’

  ‘And then, after all the bogus sanctity, to be bewitched by a dead woman.’

  ‘You’re mad. I always said so.’

  ‘Perhaps. All the time I was busy with that colossal spike — Yet I knew nothing of her. Is that what she meant, in my, my dream, speaking to me, or rather not speaking, but humming at me from her empty mouth? And yet you see, I’m not sure of that even. Alison said she bewitched me. That’s what it was, wasn’t it, Roger? What else could it be? And yet you see — it may be a true Nail after all. There’s just no way of knowing.’

  The master builder shouted.

  ‘God damn you Jocelin! It’ll fall, and I’ll have to wait for it! You took my craft, you took my army, you took everything. May you be cursed right through hell!’

  He gave a hiccuping sob.

  ‘You and your net. You drove me too high.’

  ‘I was driven too. I was in some net or other.’

  He heard Roger sniffing into the bolster.

  ‘Too high. Too high.’

  All at once there was a clearness in Jocelin’s head. He saw exactly what could be done with one bulk of the formless, the incommunicable.

  ‘Look. This is one thing I came to do.’

  He picked at the morse until his cloak fell from him, pushed off his skullcap, and laid the cross from his chest on the settle.

  ‘I’m sorry about the tonsure. Clean water through the mouth of a dead dog. No, indeed. Heresies? I’m a compendium.’

  He got up and shuffled across the room. He knelt, but there was not enough strength in his back to sustain his weight so he fell on his hands. Well, he thought, this will have to do.

  ‘Once you said I was the devil himself. It isn’t true, I’m a fool. Also I think — I’m a building with a vast cellarage where the rats live; and there’s some kind of blight on my hands. I injure everyone I touch, particularly those I love. Now I’ve come in pain and shame, to ask you to forgive me.’

  There was a long silence. The fire clicked, the window creaked on its hinges, and the leaves stirred outside. He examined the floorboards between his hands. I’m here, he thought. I can do no more.

  There was a thump from the floor as a knee hit it by his right hand. His shoulders were seized and he was hauled up straight. Roger’s arms were round him, in the flames of his back. He felt his body and head shaken as the master builder cursed and sobbed. He did not sob well, so that each sob was a convulsion that shook them both; and then words came tumbling out between the sobs so that Jocelin found he was clinging too, with a drowning clutch. Roger’s head was ground into his shoulder and he found himself babbling foolish things about an appletree, saying foolish, nursery things and patting a broad, shaking back. He is such a good man, he thought, so good — whatever that is! Something is being born here under the painted, swinging sign.

  Presently Roger heaved himself back. He kept one hand on Jocelin’s shoulder, but smeared the other over his own face.

  ‘Blubbering like a baby. It’s the drink. I cry easily when I’m drunk.’

  Jocelin found himself swaying under the heavy hand.

  ‘D’you think you could help me up, Roger?’

  The master builder gave a great shout of laughter. He half-carried Jocelin back to the settle, then went and slumped on the edge of the bed. All the time, Jocelin explained.

  ‘There isn’t much to my back nowadays. You could snap me. Sometimes I think it’s the weight of the stone hammer; but there it is.’

  ‘There it is. Sticking up. Drink.’

  ‘Not for me. No thank you.’

  A stray end of a faggot caught and burned with a yellow flame. It filled the room with leaping shadows. The master builder reached for the jug and took a swig at it.

  ‘We did what we could.’

  ‘Things were terrible right at the top. Insane.’

  ‘Don’t talk about it.’

  ‘Heavy; pause. Light; pause.’

  The master builder shouted.

  ‘All right! All right!’

  Jocelin inspected the formless thing in his head again.

  ‘There’s more of course. It’ll fall one day; but for all the bending pillars, the slanting spire, the rubble — I don’t know. I’ve still a residue of, what shall I call it, disbelief perhaps? You see it may be what we were meant to do, the two of us. He said I’m like a girl, I always have to have a best friend; but there’s nothing wrong in that, is there? So I gave it my body. What holds it up, Roger? I? The nail? Does she, or do you? Or is it poor Pangall, crouched beneath the crossways, with a sliver of mistletoe between his ribs?’

  Roger Mason went very still, so still the flames made him shake as if he were part of the wall. But there were other things moving in the room, Jocelin felt them beating about him with black wings. His voice spoke out of a storm and he hardly knew he was using it.

  ‘So there’s still something you can do, Roger my son. Still something.’

  Roger Mason’s face was dark again with blood, and his voice hoarse.

  ‘That was what you came for, wasn’t it, Jocelin? An eye for an eye, tooth for tooth. If I don’t — you’ll tell.’

  ‘No! No! I never meant —’

  ‘I understand you, Father. I’ve felt it catching up.’

  Now, among the black wings, terror fell on Jocelin.

  ‘I didn’t mean —’

  ‘I said I understand you.’

  ‘Something made me say it — something out of my control!’

  Roger Mason had slumped on the bed.

  ‘When the next gale begins, I shall remember. An eye for an eye.’

  ‘You could go away. You’re still young.’

  ‘Who’d employ me? Who’d work with me? You want everything, don’t you, Father?’

  ‘God is all about us. That I knew — But I know these other things as well. Which is to say, I know nothing. What’s a man’s mind Roger? Is it the whole building, cellarage and all?’

  Then the woman was in the room, darkeyed and speaking windily. When she had gone he heard other voices and laughter.

  ‘What’s that outside?’

  ‘People.’

  ‘You see — if she knew anything about it; what can I say? The trouble is, Roger, that the cellarage knew about him — knew he was impotent I mean — and arranged the marriage. It was her hair, I think. I used to see it, blowing red about a thin, pale face. After that, of course not. But later when she stood by the pillar looking across at you, it seared into my eye. Then she bewitched me. She must have done, mustn’t she? That’s why I must know what kind of creature she was; because if she knew, knew what happened to her husband, even consented to it perhaps — there would be no horror as deep — And of course a creature like that would haunt me!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘About her, of course. I got to look for her. She’d come running and then stand. I bound up her cut knee with a piece torn from my own — Well, what of it? Later, when I knew how deeply she was in my net, I tried to see her, tried to explain —’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Did she ever speak of me? Well never mind. I sacrificed her too. Deliberately. You know Roger, prayers are answered. That’s horrible. So after she died, she haunted me, she bewitched me. To have prayer blinded by hair. A dead woman. That’s a good joke, isn’t it?’

  ‘A joke!’

  ‘There ought to be some mode of life where all love is good, where one love can’t compete with another but adds to it. What kind of a thing is a man’s mind, Roger?�
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  ‘You got what you came for. Go, now.’

  ‘Only I must know —’

  ‘What does it matter to us now?’

  ‘There’s so much confusion in my mind. I loved her, you see, before she bewitched me, like a daughter. You see, that time she died —’

  ‘Let it be. Go.’

  ‘I need three tongues to say three things at once. I was there. You remember? I only wanted to help. Perhaps I understood some things, even then. She was on the floor. When she looked up, she saw me in the doorway, all dressed up, dean, priest, the accuser. I only wanted to help, but it killed her. I killed her as surely as if I’d cut her throat.’

  He heard the master builder’s feet by his own. He felt a hot and winy breath by his face.

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘Can’t you see? It’s why I must know these things—I killed her!’

  Suddenly the master builder was shouting.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’

  His hands hurled Jocelin sideways. The door slammed open and the same hands thrust him away. He saw stairs coming at him far too fast; then he was clinging to a rail, and his knees were on the stairs.

  ‘You stinking corpse!’

  The jug flew past his head and shattered on the wall. His feet and hands took him down to greasy cobbles and he heard the master builder shouting behind him.

  ‘I hope they flay you!’

  But that noise was consumed in a storm of voices, all shouting and laughing and making hound noises. He got up by the wall, but the noises swirling round him, brought hands and feet and dim faces at his own. He glimpsed a dark alley and pushed himself at it while the clothing tore on his back. He heard his gown rip; he could not lie down for hands held him up. The noises began to bray and yelp. They created their own mouths, fanged and slavering. He cried out.

  ‘My children! My children!’

  The yelling and bundling went on, a sea of imprecation and hate. The hands became fists and feet. High over everything he thought he heard Ivo and his friends urging on the hounds.