by Iris Murdoch
Now all was silent in Penndean, and Benet, as he sat upon his bed, was rehearsing what had happened since the great day of the re-entry of Jackson into Tara. ‘Benet’s friends’ were all pleased to hear of Jackson’s return and of his new status and even came over formally to greet him, though many, especially the love-birds, were more concerned with their own immediate lives, and the phenomenon, now time had passed, was settling down into ordinary. Jackson, now visible much more than Benet, might be spoken of (by some perhaps ambiguously) as ‘Benet’s friend’. He was promptly made famous as a cook, and urged to write a cookery book. He still worked in gardens, Benet’s and those of others, did shopping, was an electrician, a carpenter, a maker of things, a mender of things, a man of all trades. Indeed he was revered as such. Life at Penn and at Tara went on almost as usual. Benet was now at least confident that he was the person closest to Jackson. With this, he held silently to his heart the final pronouncement concerning the Lodge.
Jackson now read a great deal, perhaps he had done so before, he was often in the library when Benet was in his study. They sat together in the evenings in the drawing room and talked, ‘yarned’ as Benet said, Benet recalling his parents, his childhood, his first memories of Uncle Tim, how his father derided Tim, how Benet came to love him. Benet also chatted of his various travels, but had not yet ventured to mention Venice. Of Jackson’s past nothing was said. ‘A strange kind of human being,’ Owen had called him. Jackson read, having read many of them already, all Tim’s books, those about India and the East, also Tim’s favourite novels. Benet had noticed earlier, and remembered now from a repartee at dinner, that Jackson had probably read Tolstoy, at least he had been able to defend Sonya. He had certainly read Shakespeare. Benet had talked freely about his own work, as it concerned Heidegger and Hölderlin, these interested Jackson and he encouraged Benet to go on, indeed insisted that he should. Of course the talk often returned to Uncle Tim, and Benet had only lately remembered, he did not recall when or why, that Uncle Tim had told him once that Jackson knew some oriental languages. Of this nothing was said. The close observers, such as Owen and Mildred, and Edward who sometimes came over by himself, agreed that the pair were ‘getting on very well together’. Benet knew however that there was a border over which he could not take a step. That ‘stoppage’ at first distressed Benet, but in time he took to it, finding in it a kind of tender vibration. More ultimate was Jackson’s throwaway remark, ‘I cannot guarantee that I will stay here or anywhere permanently’.
After a while visitors became less inquisitively frequent. Ordinary life went on. Rosalind Berran, now Abelson, was to have a baby. (Never mentioned by Tuan except once passionately to Benet: ‘Oh let it be a boy!’) Marian Bjerke was also about to have a baby, she and Rosalind kept up a constant correspondence. Priscilla Conti (Priscilla was a professional singer) came and talked a lot with Jackson and they sang together. Benet had never heard Jackson sing. ‘A wonderful voice,’ Priscilla said, as she dashed back to Italy. Jackson had occasional private conversations with Oliver Caxton, these took place in the Lodge at Tara. Jackson more often, and regularly, visited Owen, with whom he often stayed for a long time. So things were changing. Most profoundly disturbing to Benet was that Mildred had introduced Jackson to Lucas Begbrook, and that they were probably generating ‘holiness’ between them! All these private visitations Jackson of course mentioned to Benet but did not discuss.
The dawn was now perceptibly present, introducing a transparent curtain of pale blue. The rising sun was gently making his presence felt. The revellers of the previous night were still asleep, Edward and Anna were asleep, Owen and Mildred were asleep, Tuan and Rosalind were asleep, Benet was asleep. Bran was not asleep. He made his way cautiously down the big stairway and tip-toed towards the back of the house, here he unlocked a small door which led out into the garden. As he hurried across the grass his shoes and socks were wet with dew. The pale gravelled path was also damp, waiting for the sun to warm it. Bran, taking another key from his pocket, unlocked a green slatted wooden door, carefully locking it behind him. He was making for the stables. His nearness was already now being announced, as his feet crunched more gravel and again more paving. He heard a faint little cry, almost like that of a cat. He hurried on to where Rex’s head was visible, over the lower door of the stable. Bran ran forward and threw his arms round Rex’s neck. The pony whinnied again as Bran rubbed his brow gently against the warm fur, then standing back and drawing his hands down Rex’s nose and over his wet black nostrils. They looked at each other, the boy and the pony, with their wild eyes, both young, both passionate, they looked at each other with amazement, and with passion and with love. Bran said, ‘Not yet, my pretty one, my dear, goodbye for a little, I shall come back soon.’ In an instant then he turned and ran, listening to the high whinny of the little pony, he ran zigzag avoiding the front of the house, darting along an alley of yellow privet and crossing another gravel path and slithering down a grassy slope towards a well-kept brick wall. He climbed over the wall at his particular place, falling, then stumbling into the long grasses and dashing across the tarmac road. He climbed over a five-barred gate and ran upwards now, panting, across a field, then through another gate. He stood a while breathing deeply by a hedge, then walked on, slipping through another hedge into another field. Here he stood, breathing hard, looking anxiously about. Then in the still slight hazy morning light he saw the big hunter coming slowly towards him. He called softly, ‘Spencer, Spencer,’ as he walked now to meet him, and in a sudden clumsy embrace they met, Bran clutching at the great neck and seeking for the great head, as the horse leant down towards the boy. Bran felt a strange feeling on his bare arms where a big strong tongue was licking him. Clumsily he reached to get an offering, a carrot, out of his pocket, but Spencer was not interested, and had now removed his tongue to Bran’s face. Bran then began to walk slowly across the field, the horse following, and stopped again reaching up his arms to the horse’s neck, stroking his huge face, looking into his beautiful eyes, and tears came to Bran as he said his name and felt with his hands the warm smooth tense skin; and it was as if he were holding up all the world. He had been thus to the field more than once, but this visitation had something very special, painful, a burning sensation, as if there were flames licking them both, lifting up their faces to the heat of the risen sun. Bran found himself sobbing. He lay against the horse’s side, pressing up against the shoulder, thrusting his hand into the mane, as if by Spencer’s gentle movement, the horse and he were one. At last the ecstasy was passing, and Bran said to Spencer, ‘I am sorry, oh I am so sorry,’ apologising for not being able to be, with and for the other, something perfect. He detached himself, kissing the warm fur, murmuring, ‘I’ll be back again,’ and turned away and ran back across the field. Before he reached the hedge he fell, his ankles tangled by thick bindweed. He hurried on, the way he had come, down the hill. Spencer followed him slowly as far as he could. He was very old and tired. Bending his elegant legs he lay down in the long grass.
Jackson, who had also got up early, had had his interview with Spencer and was beginning to walk down towards the river when, looking back, he saw Bran appearing. Unobserved, he sat down in the grass and watched the boy and the horse, both his friends. He was also, he observed, now the companion of a very large spider who was busy completing a web between the tall grasses. The spider ran hurriedly over to see what was happening, but there was only a minor disturbance. Now Bran had gone, but Jackson continued to sit motionless in the grass. He breathed deeply. Sometimes he had a sudden loss of breath, together with a momentary loss, or shift, of memory. So he was to wait, once more, forgetfulness, his and theirs. He thought, my power has left me, will it ever return, will the indications return? No assignment. But punishment? Madness of course always now at hand. He had forgotten where he had to go, and what he had to do. To the mountains. If he went to the mountains now he would find no one there. Stay with Benet - among the rich - seeking the poor? How st
range just now that he was able to sing. Assigned? He remembered now that he could sing. But he had come to the wrong turning. With Benet, had he finally made a mistake? Have I simply come to the end of my tasks? I wish I could say - ‘I have only to wait.’ How much did Uncle Tim understand, I wonder. Or, how much now will I understand. My powers have left me, will they return - have I simply misunderstood? At least I had called Benet to the bridge. Is it all a dream, yes, perhaps a dream - yet my strength remains, and I can destroy myself at any moment. Death, its closeness. Do I after all fear those who seek me? I have forgotten them and no one calls. Was I in prison once? I cannot remember. At the end of what is necessary, I have come to a place where there is no road.
As, casting off all this, he began to rise, he felt something strange. The spider had discovered his hand and was now walking upon it. Gently he assisted the creature back into its web. He walked down towards the river and crossed the bridge. As he came nearer now to Penndean he began to smile.
