Unclay

by T. F. Powys

  “Then kill me,” cried Priscilla, and bowed low, waiting for the stroke.

  Instead of striking her with his scythe, Death took her into his arms and resumed his human form. His mood just then was a merry one.

  “Mr. Hayhoe is lying fast asleep,” he said, “with his forehead upon the Holy Bible. Why should we not be happy? Here is your child’s grave. I kill, and Love gives life, but in reality we are one and the same. We often exchange our weapons. And then ’tis I that give life, and Love that kills. I have taken upon me, during my holiday, the usual follies that men do to pass the time with, and I have seen that it is truly my presence that all men need to make them glad. The earthly ending, after the brave folly that is called life is ended, is God’s largesse to man. And I am the bringer of the gift.

  “A sad mistake has been made.

  “In the midst of the firmament is set—a tiny mirror—the Earth. And God has seen His own face in this glass. In this mirror God saw Himself as man.

  “When a deathly numbness overcomes a body, when the flesh corrupts, and the colour of the face is changed in the grave, then I have done for man more than Love can do, for I have changed a foolish and unnatural craving into everlasting content.

  “In all the love feats, I take my proper part. When a new life begins to form in the womb, my seeds are there, as well as Love’s. We are bound together in the same knot. I could be happy lying with you now, and one day you will be glad to lie with me.

  “And yet, Priscilla”—and Death looked at her strangely—“I begin indeed to grow weary of being a reaper, and that only because of the vanity of some one whom I will not name, and who should never have wished to see himself as Narcissus did. I even wish that you had the power to wield my own scythe against me.”

  Death stood again before Priscilla as a being of glory.

  “But why should men fear me?” he cried. “I do but change a fleeting, futile, and vaporous being into eternal loveliness. I—a king—give crowns. I cloud the mirror, and God sees Himself no more. But I thought that perhaps I might, if I became a man, live and die like one.”

  Death sighed.

  “Alas! I cannot die,” he said. “The blessed gift that I give to others I shall never know.”

  “But I have read in the Bible,” said Priscilla softly, “that ‘death shall be no more.’”

  “Perhaps I am an illusion,” said Death, more gaily. “Certainly Love is. But, whether real or no, I am no enemy to man.”

  “Show me my child,” cried Priscilla.

  Death drew her under the green boughs of the yew.

  “Look!” he said.

  She peeped out of her hiding-place, and saw a company of merry children playing amongst the tombs. They were the same children—although a little younger—as those who lived in Shelton and who used sometimes to come and play in Dodder. But, strangely enough, the season of the year was changed. Instead of summer leaves, the signs of autumn were there. Yellow leaves hung from the trees, and the fields were brown and bare. One of the children—a boy—laughed joyously. Priscilla would have run to him, only Death prevented her. Priscilla held out her arms and called her child by name, but he saw her not—and in a few moments the children were gone.

  “Though you supposed yourself to be under the yew,” said Death, when they stood beside the little grave again, “yet in reality you were a great way off, and saw what has been, as still being. You saw your child alive.”

  “I do not understand,” said Priscilla.

  “Neither do I,” answered Death.

  Priscilla lay down upon the grave, and closed her eyes. Death thought that she slept.

  “Love defeated me first,” he said, sadly, “and now sleep has robbed me of my happiness. How ungrateful is a woman! I thought certainly to have enjoyed Priscilla. But, instead, I will walk upon Madder Hill, and gather a few mushrooms for my supper.”

  LII

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  A Bridal Weapon

  A summer’s night is soon passed and gone. Susie’s wedding-day was come, but no country mind ever accepts anything that has not happened as sure to happen.

  Joseph Bridle believed that something unforeseen would prevent the wedding. And why not? Joseph Bridle had not carried that dread parchment in his bosom for so long without feeling sure that the two names written there could never be separated. Though not in life, they must, he knew, be one in death—and perhaps in life too. If Death could not defeat him, how then could Mr. Mere?

  Many a girl has changed her mind upon the wedding morn, and until the marriage lines were writ there was hope for him.

  After saving Susie from Death, Joe had called his cows from the down and let them into his field. He watched them for a little. They had not browsed there for many moments, in the cool of the evening, before a change came over them. They had before been but meagre creatures—only lean kine, but even after the first few mouthfuls of that green grass they grew fat. And soon the best beasts in Mr. Mere’s herd could not match them.

  At first Joe feared that they might merely be blown. But no, for within an hour of eating that sweet grass they lay down contentedly to chew the cud.

  Joe Bridle slept happily that night, and rose in the morning with hope in his heart. The day was come that must decide his fate. Yet he felt no anxiety. As he dressed himself, he looked through the window at Madder Hill.

  Hope came from that hill. Whatever happened to him, whatever happened to Susie, Madder Hill would still look down upon Dodder, and the peace of that hill nothing can destroy.

  Never had his cows yielded more milk than they did that morning, and if Susie came to him even at this last moment, all might yet be well. His love was no new creation; it was like the sun. It went back into the far past and reached into the everlasting future. Could such a high matter be set aside and its consummation delayed?

  As soon as he had finished milking, and had eaten his breakfast, Joseph Bridle went to Susie’s cottage.

  She was in the garden tending some late chickens that she had reared from eggs her father had found, for hardly did any hen stray in Dodder that escaped the eye of Mr. Dawe. Susie did not look like a bride; she wore black.

  Joe Bridle begged her to come to him. He leaned against the gate, the merry birds sang and chirped in the garden, the bees were busy with the flowers, and the warm summer sun kissed the green earth, but upon Madder Hill the shadow of a cloud rested.

  Susie began to tease Joe, as she had often done during their courtship. She told him what Lord Bullman had said, and how friendly that gentleman had been to her. “All know,” she said, “of his lordship’s wish to revive an old law.” Susie counted upon her fingers the possible brides of that year that might be wedded in the neighbourhood, and observed that Lord Bullman would have as busy a time of it as Mr. Hayhoe. Susie laughed and turned up her sleeve. She showed the marks of teeth.

  “I know now that it was Mr. Mere who bit me,” she said; and suddenly, without his expecting her, she threw herself into Joe’s arms, clung to him, and kissed his lips.

  “Oh,” she whispered, “if only you had so fine a house, a real drive, and big gates, I would have had you instead of Mr. Mere—but only think how glad Daisy Huddy would be to see me poor!”

  She broke away from him, and ran into the house.

  Joseph Bridle, hardly knowing how he reached there, found himself beside the pond in the field. A word came into his mind—“Unclay.” He was not the only one who had stood there and heard that command spoken. Others had heard the same word. To obey the command was now a simple matter.

  The word was not set upon him alone, but upon all flesh. It was writ on the forehead of the unborn babe, it was carved upon the highest mountains, and written in the hidden slime of the lowest valleys. Everywhere was the same word, telling man, telling all matter, of the same awful fate. Uncla
y!

  The word became a monster in Bridle’s mind. It grew larger. The terrible letters of it encircled the earth. It was God’s writing; no star in the vast firmament could escape it, and no mortal man. Whatsoever be wrapped and clothed in garments of clay shall hear that word spoken.

  Bridle uttered a great cry.

  He saw in the water of the pond the death-pale face of a girl. He fled in terror. And now he began to wish that he had never found the parchment. Had that paper remained in the right hands, two graves would already have been dug. So why had he not stept into the water when that signature floated there?

  The morning passed. Joseph Bridle attended to his work. He cleaned out the cow-stalls, and busied himself for a little in the neglected garden, clearing it of weeds.

  The wedding was to be at two o’clock.

  Bridle ate his dinner, in silence, at one. Sarah watched him. She wondered that he could eat so well when his young girl was to be taken away from him. But she supposed that, having been a camel for so long, she was not yet human enough to understand the ways of a man. Perhaps Mr. Balliboy would explain.

  It has been said that Tinker Jar can give sight to the blind. He now gave sight to Madder Hill. Though Madder Hill had existed for so long, it had never loved before. But, now it was able to see, the Hill loved Bridle’s pond. The pond was deep enough for a Hill to look into.

  Madder Hill gazed into Joseph’s pond and loved it. The Hill looked for God. It had learned from the worms that God dwells in deep places. Madder Hill saw God in the pond.

  While the Hill looked into the pond, Farmer Mere was preparing for his wedding. All the night he had dreamed of cruel doings. He wished he could transform himself into the giant, cut in the chalk down near Enmore village. Were he as potent as that giant appeared to be, he could certainly terrify a young bride, but, being an old man, he had not much hope of that.

  Of course he could bite Susie, but he wished to frighten her to death, as well as to torture her. A man may do as he likes with his own.

  He might, just for the jest, of course, take a loaded gun into the bedroom, and press the cold muzzle between her breasts. Or else carry her in her nightgown into the yard, where the surly bull was kept, and throw her down and goad him at her. But perhaps the bull would pity her distress as his dog had done. Only a man’s manners would do for her.

  Mr. Mere considered what he could do. His eyes gleamed cruelly, and he laughed aloud.

  He had thought of something, he had remembered Death’s scythe. Surely no better scourge could be found to terrify a poor, frightened girl. Every man in Dodder had admired the sharpness of its edge, for honest John had always liked to show off the weapon that he was so proud of. Even Mr. Titball had admired the scythe and had observed that he believed the edge to be nearly as keen as Lord Bullman’s best razor.

  Mere thought that the scythe would be easy to steal. It was said that Death had begun again to search in the fields for his lost property, and also, in talking to his landlord, Card, Death had said that he was growing tired of Dodder and was already beginning to look out for another habitation.

  From the garden of the Manor farm, Mr. Mere could look into the churchyard. A few people were already loitering there, waiting for him to come and be married. One old woman—Mrs. Moggs—had a paper bag in her hand—rice! Amongst these waiting people, Mr. Mere noticed John Death.

  The farmer walked unconcernedly out of his gate. He went to Death’s cottage. The scythe was hung upon a nail in the kitchen.

  Mere stole the scythe.

  He believed that no one saw him, and entered the Manor house by the back way.

  LIII

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  Joe Bridle Turns to the Wall

  There is a certain Name that is best let alone. If one meets this Name at any time, when out walking, it is best to go by with one’s eyes shut. If any man can forget the Name, so much the better for him. His way of life will be easier.

  With the Name forgotten, a man’s pleasures may be moderate, and he will be happy. He will never love to excess, as did Joseph Bridle. He will shut out suffering from his mind and close his ears to injustice. A man is wise who lives to himself alone, and forgets that Name.

  If this Name, by some unlucky chance, is hidden in thy heart, cast it out. Away with it, away with it! It is a torment, a terrible fang. With that Name within you, uneasy thoughts will trouble you. Hide it, cast it out! Take it into the church, and carry yourself along too, in the robes of a bishop, place the Name upon the Altar, and the old serpent will devour it. Then power, praise and might, goods and honour will come to you; with that Name out of your sight, you will be rich.

  But whatever others can do, Joseph Bridle could not forget the Name, for it was written upon the parchment in his bosom. He had never let the signature go from him, neither at night nor in the day. He had kept the parchment for so long that his view of time was altered. He thought that his love for Susie would make her his for all eternity.

  Instead of looking forward, according to the ordinary process of time—in which all things move gradually to fruition in a slow measured tread, one season meeting another either in cold shower or warm sunshine, but all moving and passing on—Joseph Bridle saw all things done and ended. By the virtue of the parchment that he carried, he saw his life before him but as a moment. Hours, days, and years came and went with the rapidity of seconds. Children were born, grew to manhood, and found new homes for themselves. Susie and he, together, sank contentedly into the grave.

  But neither his life, nor yet hers, were the only things that vanished. All time and all life were ended too. All the rivers of life, with their many waters, were sunk for ever in the great sea.…

  Joseph Bridle waited in the church porch with John Death. Mr. Mere was in the vestry, with Mr. Hayhoe, awaiting the bride.

  Presently Susie Dawe approached the church with her father. As she came up the path, Winnie Huddy ran to her. Winnie whispered to her that, if she would only give up Mr. Mere and go home again, she would present her with Mr. Solly, while she, Winnie, would be the servant.

  “’Tis only money thee do want,” said Winnie, knowingly. “But Farmer Mere bain’t got so much as Mr. Solly. In his parlour there be golden candlesticks in glass case. And that bain’t all, neither. For he have a wide, big drawer full of silver sixpences.”

  James Dawe drove Winnie away.

  In the church porch Joseph Bridle stopped Susie. He begged her to go with him to his home. But she only looked at him strangely, as if she had not heard what he said. Joseph Bridle turned his face to the wall.

  Susie knelt to Death. Her look changed. She became like a girl who had just learned to love. She blushed coyly and invited Death to take her into his arms. She told him, in country terms, that she loved him. Death turned from her and hid his face, and James Dawe drew her into the church.

  Never had Mr. Hayhoe read any service with a more troubled mind. When he came to the words, “Wilt thou have this woman?” he trembled as if a cold blast had struck him, lost his place, and could only be heard to mutter, “Susie, Susie, my dear Susie, where are you? Here is your tippet. Mrs. Hayhoe begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage, though everything has been done—one door nailed up—quantities of matting—my dear Susie, indeed you must.”

  But, even though Mr. Hayhoe may have forgotten himself a little during that part of the service, the wedding was properly concluded, and shortly afterwards Susie was led from the church by Mr. Mere, and through the private gate to the Manor farm.

  As soon as the wedding party were gone, Joseph Bridle put his hand into his bosom and drew out a piece of parchment.

  This parchment he gave to Death.

  LIV

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  Winnie Brings a Message
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  When a man who has looked a long time for something that he has lost, and at last has found it, one may well believe that his joy at the happy discovery will be disagreeably lessened if, at that moment, he finds that something else of his is gone too.

  Predestination is a strange cat. That all should be arranged from the beginning to go so funnily is a queer concern. One would think almost that at the bottom of the well of being one may discover, instead of a mighty God, only the cap and bells of a mad fool. But, whoever be there, He has a fine fancy, and likes to play a trick upon His friends, and may introduce John Knox to the Devil instead of to Moses.

  It is well known that every good workman has a favourite tool. A gardener—and even Wordsworth’s Mr. Wilkinson—loves his spade. A carpenter may value his hammer more than its weight in gold. John Death was fond of his scythe. Many a fine swath of grass he had cut with it, besides much that was withered and dry.

  When a king’s messenger receives a command, he starts at once upon his mission. And, as soon as Death had recovered his parchment, he wished at once to obey the written order, and so, leaving Joseph Bridle, he hurried to his cottage to fetch his scythe.

  The scythe was not there.

  “Robbers,” cried John, “thieves and rascals!” and ran out into the lane. There he met Winnie Huddy.

  Perceiving Death’s pitiful and scared look—and indeed, he looked like an old witch who has lost her black cat—Winnie could only laugh. She had never seen a man before so utterly defeated by destiny. John knew not what do do. He held up his arm, as though to ward off a blow that he seemed to expect at any moment to descend upon him from the sky. He saw as many thieves about him as ever Lord Bullman could have seen in his gardens. He even looked at Joe Bridle’s horse with suspicion.