Gog

by Andrew Sinclair

  “Of course, Saint Gog would have been England’s greatest dead tourist attraction, if he hadn’t had someone to look after him. And that person was his ignored wife (whom we’ll call Maire just for fun). Saint Gog had, unfortunately, married early in life before he had become holy and wise. And though he tried to flee from his wife into the wilderness, somehow she had enough devotion to follow after him – difficult though that was – and to keep him alive when he was nearly in the grave. After all, when he’d given away his trousers, who had to scrounge him another pair? Maire. When he was on the point of starving to death, who had to force oysters and brown bread down his unwilling gullet? Maire. Who swept out his lonely cave, who prevented the tourists from tearing out his finger-nails and hair for holy relics, who chased away the would-be Salomes after his bed or head, who charged an entrance fee to his lair so that the rabble could be kept away and enough ground be bought to allow him a little solitude? Why, Maire, of course. In return for her services to the Saint, the world called her a dragon, a shrew, a monster of avarice, a harpy, and worse. And they pitied the Saint who, in the folly of his youth, had misallied himself to such a creature.

  “In the fullness of time, Saint Gog died in the odour of worms and sanctity and he immediately rose to heaven on a golden push-chair. Or so the faithful reported. His gorgon of a wife shook down the believers for a vast marble tomb to be set up on his favourite meditative hill-top on Glastonbury Tor, visible for twenty miles all around. This hill-top immediately became the most crowded and sacred doss-house for all the pilgrims of the world. Maire also channelled some of the funds aside to bring up Saint Gog’s son, whom she had never mentioned because the Saint preferred to ignore the child as a youthful peccadillo beneath the attention of a holy man. (I know we have no children, Gog, but it improves the story.) And so, Maire lived out the rest of her days, fading into obscurity more and more each year, as the queue at Saint Gog’s shrine grew and grew until it stretched seven times seven round the Tor. And then Maire died in her due time and was buried underneath a little wooden cross in a neglected spot at the foot of the Tor, on which stood the marble tomb of Saint Gog.

  “And so it seemed that, in life on earth as well as in heaven, the Saint and his wife had found their rightful resting-places. But one day, many years later, Joseph of Arimathea passed by the foot of the Tor on his way to plant the Holy Thorn at Glastonbury (where you and I are now proceeding, O beloved). And Joseph stopped at the wooden cross at the foot of the Tor and he picked it up from the place where it had fallen on the ground and he set it up again above the grave of the Saint’s Wife and he cleared the plot of weeds and he knelt there to pray. And when he had started again on his way towards Glastonbury without ever looking upwards at the vast tomb of Saint Gog on the high ground above him, one of his twelve disciples asked, ‘Master, why did you not pray at the grave of the true Saint?’ And Joseph answered, ‘I did’.”

  The dawn wrinkles the puffy skin of cloud, as the car stops at Glastonbury outside the ruins of the Abbey. Maire ushers Gog out of the door and kisses him almost coldly on the brow. “Be a good pilgrim,” she says, “and remember who set you on your way.”

  XXIII

  Gog does not feel holy, once he has lumbered over the wall onto the sacred soil of Glastonbury Abbey. He merely feels sleepy. The dawn light may lend the abbey ruins that mysterious clarity which provokes awe in the religious soul, but it also exhales a mist of fatigue as if the whole earth were breathing out a silent yawn. Gog yawns, too, in sympathy with the tired break of day, then suppresses the heretic yawn guiltily, only to yawn twice as loud and long from the effort of trying to suppress it.

  Gog walks on the turf between the fallen walls of the abbey that seem no more than an ornament now to the perfection of the cropped lawn. He is searching for a starting point which may bless him on his journey and take away the dullness of his spirits. He finds a healing well in the crypt of a ruined chapel; but the well is set behind plate glass. No wanderer can wash himself free from his diseases or from his sins there; Gog can scarcely see the round lip of the well for the reflection of his own self in the dark glass. The sites of the High Altar or of King Arthur’s Grave might, indeed, be the marks for the beginning of Gog’s quest after the grail of self-wisdom; but their oblongs of turf are surrounded by low spiked black chains that seem more mantraps for the ankles than spurs for the inspiration. Arthur, Arthur, were you really buried here in this island of would-have-been Avalon, once set about with marshes and now set about with mainland? Or is the king’s grave, which they looted to find your bones, the resting-place of mere royal calcium that was never the white lie of a legendary hero? From such a questionable beginning, no pilgrim ever should start forth. And even when Gog follows the sign that reads TO THE THORN, thinking that such a holy tree must prick him into a spurt of leaving, he finds the sign leads only to another sign, saying that the original thorn was never in the abbey grounds at all, but elsewhere. The thorn tree which is there claims to be a graft from the original holy thorn planted by Joseph of Arimathea; but it hardly seems to justify its name. It is spikeless and spineless and without flower, however much legend makes it bloom forever and Christmas day.

  So Gog would wearily leave the sacred soil of the holiest place in Albion, the home of pagan temples before the coming of Christ, did not the first shaft of sun strike him blind as he clambers back over the girdling wall round the ruins. He turns away from the light to see a gout of blood spattering up from the broken stone top of the abbey church. It is a miracle. And Gog feels his own flesh spout out a spray of wonder and curiosity that engages him on his way to the East. If a blink of heavy eyes reveals the miracle to be red valerian blooming on the wall, nothing can take away the first jolt of worship and surprise. So Gog starts out towards Shepton Mallet, bearing a little hope to balance his dragging steps.

  The road follows the crests of the chain of hillocks that used to be the only stepping stones above the marshes from the hills to the Island and Tor of Glastonbury. On Gog’s left, the Tor rises in a series of giant steps of grass and gravel to a square tall tower which might indeed be the tomb of Saint Gog, looking down in the arrogance of holiness at mere mortals far below. Yet Gog, as he trudges step after step, can hardly see the point of Maire’s story. A holy man may make a woman evil by leaving his dirty work to her; but a walking man is no more than a walking man, alone on a road, affecting no one and nothing, merely moving from place to place, with all the useless private purpose of the truly irresponsible and the truly free. If mankind chooses to think hermits and wanderers holy, it is because mankind must explain away the person who wishes to have nothing to do with his own species, for good or bad.

  Two miles out of Glastonbury, Gog reaches a ditch and rampart cut athwart the road, which ignores the old earthwork on its level-running way. The map calls the rampart Ponter’s Ball, and nature has strengthened its defences over the thousands of years by fringing it with nettle and bramble and thorn. Ponter’s Ball, Ponter’s Ball, the name nags at Gog’s mind. Built of earth by the men of the Iron Age, surely? Built to enclose a great Celtic cemetery on the Tor, built to keep out the impious from the sanctuaries of the Druids, which the later Christians came to desecrate and consecrate as their own? Ponter’s Ball, surely that was it? A massive bank and ditch running from marsh edge to marsh edge, barring the only landward approach to the “Island” of Glastonbury, later claimed to be Avalon. As a military obstacle the earthwork does not make sense; it could be too easily turned at either end. So it must be the temenos of a great pagan sanctuary. Ergo, q.e.d., proven, the right answer by archaeological reasoning. So Gog would write, if he were once again sweating at his desk with the hundreds of other students in the dark hall that swims up in his mind, the hand of the clock on the wall twitching at the nerves in his stomach as he strives to set down all he knows against time, against time, against time. But time won then as time wins now. The examiner might give full marks for Gog’s answer on Ponter’s Ball; but
time has made even the question pointless and has swallowed up the truth in weed and tree and forgetfulness. Ponter’s Ball is merely the overgrown ditch and bank before Gog’s eyes. Whether this sudden trick of memory tells him truly or falsely about what he once read, Ponter’s Ball will remain indifferent, a name and a scene to the wanderer on the road, whom time will move on as surely as a policeman.

  The wayfaring tree ahead first betrays the stealthy advance of the chalk under the soil by revealing the white bed of its roots in the white powdering of its flowers. After his long dip down between the breakwater hedges keeping back the flooding butter­cups of the marshland meadows, Gog now begins to climb the first slopes of the grassy hills past the dark-stone cottages that have lost the yellow tints of the fallen blocks of Glastonbury. Shepton Mallet itself wears grey dungarees on its walls to show its workaday spirit. At least, a village shop is open for early risers and its owner will sell Gog some stale biscuits and lemonade. But Gog is glad to move quickly through the sprawling town towards the chalk ridges. He thinks nothing will stay him, but the tail of memory gives its second flick of the morning, as he reaches a discreet blue-and-red sign pointing down an alley and bearing the initials, M.P. & D.B.

  Suddenly and hey presto, he’s Captain Griffin of Army Intelligence striding down the alley, wearing shoes waxed with ox-blood and a dark-gory Sam Browne, his khaki uniform trim on his body like a hide, the swagger stick in his hand ready to bruise and maim. Ho, ho, ahead lie the cringing prisoners, the suspect spies, the traitors waiting for the grill. See the Military Prison and Detention Barracks hidden in the hollow, with its dungeons contained in a block of crazy paving. See the prisoner peer down through the bars set across the mocking fan-top windows. Wonder at the high iron chimney that smokes away by the slate roof of the prison, belching out oily fumes that may be the charring of flesh. There’s no help from outside for the prisoners here, not with the warning boards in gold letters on baby-blue background, stating under the crown and royal initials, G VI R, that it’s two years inside for helping the escape of an army man gone wrong, six months for smuggling in liquor or fags, and an excessive postage of ten quid for hiking out a letter.

  When did you first come here, Captain Gog, commissioned as the ferret on the trail of enemy intelligence, chosen to save the English people from the Fifth Column rotting their resistance from within? And what evil did you do in the name of good, how did you wrack the flesh of the friend suspected to be foe in the name of the rights of man and democracy? The opium of oblivion has scattered its merciful poppy powder over Gog’s recollections of war, and he no longer knows as he stands under the high walls of the Detention Barracks when he came here or whether his precious errand ended in an inquisition or a joke, in a trauma or a farce.

  At his feet, Gog sees the torn pages of a horror comic. He picks them up and smooths them out against his knee. He is not surprised to see that the garish reds and purples and yellows of the comic strip bear the title:

  SPECIAL CHRISTMAS ISSUE

  SWEENY GOG

  The Demon Barber of Secret Street

  Gog reads on fascinated, his eyes skipping from lurid picture to the white balloons of the text that fly before the characters and whoosh them into action.

  At His Underground Hideaway, Sweeny Gog Manicures (ha, ha!) Enemy Agents Into Revealing Their All (Especially Mata Haris!!). Read Yet Again How Sweeny Gog Saves The White Cliffs Of Dover And Makes Mincemeat (ho, ho!) Of England’s Enemies To Put A Bit Of Body (hee, hee!) In The Bangers Of Her Soldier Sons.

  PICTURE ONE: SURROUNDED BY HIS MIGHTY MEANS FOR EXTORTING THE TRUTH FROM THE DREADED FIFTH COLUMN, SWEENY GOG DUCKS BEHIND HIS DEMONIAC ELECTRIC (BARBER’S) CHAIR, AS THE CHOLERA-­TIPPED DART FLUNG BY THE DEADLY ARM OF THE RAVISHING EYETIE BRUNETTE SPY, MISS MAMBA, WHISTLES THROUGH HIS BRISTLES.

  SWEENY GOG: Close shave!

  MISS MAMBA: Spaghetti! Mussolini!

  PICTURE TWO: IN ONE MIGHTY BOUND, SWEENY GOG STRAPS MISS MAMBA IN HIS DEMONIAC BARBER’S CHAIR, RIPPING OPEN THE BLACK SHIRT ON HER CREAMY AMPLE BOSOM WITH HIS RED-HOT HANDY-PACK CURLING TONGS.

  SWEENY GOG : Ha, would you like-a da friction massage, no, in my demoniac death-dealing barber’s chair that connects by a hidden trap door to my Win-the-War Sausage Factory in the cellars? Or will you spill all, Miss Mamba?

  MISS MAMBA: Caramba, no! Arrivaderchi, ravioli! I justa simple country-a maiden!

  PICTURE THREE: SWEENY GOG READS THE MESSAGE TATTOOED ON THE CREAMY AMPLE BOSOM OF MISS MAMBA, AS SHE STRUGGLES IN THE DEADLY GRIP OF THE BARBER’S CHAIR.

  SWEENY GOG : (WITH DEVILISH CUNNING) Then what’s justa simple country-a maiden doing with Heil Hitler palpitating on her creamy ample bosom? You are unmasked, Miss Mamba!

  MISS MAMBA: Sapristi! Risotto!

  PICTURE FOUR: SWEENY GOG PULLS THE LEVER THAT SENDS MISS MAMBA DOWN THE CHUTE INTO THE SAUSAGE MACHINE.

  SWEENY GOG: You fry with the chippolatas tonight!

  MISS MAMBA: Uuuuughi! Eeeeechi! Tuttefrutti!

  PICTURE FIVE: SWEENY GOG IS DISCOVERED IN HIS CONFIDENTIAL THINK-ROOM SOMEWHERE BENEATH THE SEWERS OF LONDON WITH HIS BLONDE SECRETARY, MISS VENUS FLYTRAP. HER BOSOMS, BEING BEST BRITISH, WEAR A LOW-CUT ARMY SHIRT AND ARE EVEN MORE CREAMY AND AMPLE.

  SWEENY GOG: (THINKS) Was that a menu? Or a code? We’ll crack it. (TALKS) The English people must be saved again in this soul-hanging, breath-shattering, cliff-taking instalment! Or how shall we find readers for our next stupendous number? I hate war, Miss Flytrap. But we must do terrible things – especially to girls with creamy ample bosoms, to save all us honest blokes. I don’t like what I’m doing, but England expects! It hurts them more than it hurts me.

  MISS FLYTRAP: You’re marvellous, Captain Gog. (THINKS) Shall I call him Sweeny?

  PICTURE SIX: SWEENY GOG’S INDISPENSABLE RIGHT HAND, SHERLOCK BONES, GIVES A SALUTE WITH HIS INDISPENSABLE RIGHT HAND AT THE THINK-ROOM DOOR. BEYOND IN THE SEWERS, THE BLOODY BODY OF FRITZ VON PIPZ BLEEDS BLOODILY ALL OVER THE PAGE AND INTO THE MARGIN.

  SHERLOCK BONES: (WITH FRANK OPEN BRITISH SMILE) A confession from Fritz Von Pipz alias John Smith, extorted by your razor-dealing, battery-sharp, death-operated scissors. He will tell all, as he lies outside on a stretcher as per Geneva Convention! And we have reached our target! Miss Mamba’s bountiful left bosom gave us our millionth sausage, enough to bring a sparkle to the eye of many a bangerless old-age pensioner on this frigid Xmas night!

  SWEENY GOG: Take a week’s leave till the next instalment and this bag of gold-wrapped jellybabies, off ration!

  FRITZ VON PIPZ : Aaaaach! Heeeeeil! Sauerkraut!

  PICTURE SEVEN: WITH SEWER RATS CRAWLING ALL OVER HIM, A BLACK-CLOAKED FIGURE DRINKS FROM THE THROAT OF THE READY-TO-TALK KRAUT AGENT. IT IS COUNT MAGNUS, THE VAMPIRE FROM OUTER SPACE, WESTPHALIA, JUST LANDED FROM HIS FLYING COFFIN! HIS LEECH-TOOTHED, SABRE-SUCKING, GAP-SHARP MOLARS DRAIN THE VITAL JUICES OF HE WHO MUST CONFESS!

  FRITZ VON PIPZ: Gluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuug . . . . . . .

  PICTURE EIGHT: WITH HAWK-JAWED, JUT-EYED, STEELY-NOSED STARE, SWEENY GOG CONFRONTS HIS ARCH-ENEMY.

  SWEENY GOG: Count Magnus! This isn’t the Crimean War! Fly back out of date! My Fritz, my precious Pipz!

  COUNT MAGNUS: Where the bee sucks, there suck I! (This is a Kulture Komic – ED.) The Vampire always walks where there is war! Too late! I’ve drunk a toast of vintage von Pipz, chateau-born when his pop was bottled, 1919!

  PICTURE NINE: ROCK-HEELED, SPRING-SNORTING, RIP-FISTED SWEENY GOG BLATS THE VILLAINOUS VAMPIRE ACROSS THE BOKO IN AN ABYSMAL BATTLE.

  ZAM! BLIM! BLUNK!

  PICTURE TEN: SWEENY GOG HOLDS HIS DREAD ADVERSARY UPSIDE DOWN AND SQUEEZES THE BLOOD OF FRITZ VON PIPZ OUT OF HIS SLAVERING FANGS. THE GORE RUNS INTO THE CRACKS IN THE COBBLED SEWERS AND WRITES A MESSAGE IN RED!

  SS PANZER STUKA TIGERS LAND WHITE CLIFFS TONIGHT BLITZ NELSONS COLUMN TO TOPPLE MORALE IF BETRAYED PERISH WITH SECRET LOVE ADOLPH

  PICTURE ELEVEN: SWEENY GOG SPEAKS EXCITEDLY INTO HIS ELECTRO-BLUE, SKY-WAY, TWO-MAGNE
TIC TELEPHONE CONNECTED DIRECT TO SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND, WHILE COUNT MAGNUS SLINKS OFF INTO THE THINK-ROOM. BEWARE!

  SWEENY GOG: Demon Barber to Whitehall 121* (War Secret – ED.) Deploy British fleet off white cliffs soonest! Ring Nelson’s Column with the Guard! I have saved England again, until next week’s rib-racking, suspense-tickling, nerveful instalment!

  COUNT MAGNUS : Revenge!!

  PICTURE TWELVE: OVER THE EXECUTION DESK OF THE THINK-ROOM, COUNT MAGNUS LAYS THE NUDE BODY OF THE ALL-BRITISH, DOUBLE-CREAMY, MORE-THAN-AMPLE MISS VENUS FLYTRAP, SINKING HIS FANGS IN HER THROAT WHILE HIS CLOAK HIDES WHAT HE IS DOING ELSEWHERE TO HER DAIRY CHARMS.

  COUNT MAGNUS: Tea-break!

  MISS FLYTRAP: Ouuuuuch! Leeeeeeeeeeggo! You cad!

  PICTURE THIRTEEN: SWEENY GOG IS PULLING A MODEST MAP OF BERLIN STUDDED WITH PINS AND MARKED FINAL VICTORY OVER THE RECUMBENT FLESH OF MISS VENUS FLYTRAP. AT THE SAME TIME, CONSCIOUS OF THE YULETIDE SPIRIT, HE HOLDS A SPRIG OF MISTLETOE OVER HER APPLE-TOOTHED, PEARL-RED LIPS. THROUGH THE WINDOW, COUNT MAGNUS IS SEEN SAILING OFF THROUGH AN ACK-ACK BARRAGE ON HIS FLYING COFFIN.

  SWEENY GOG : Happy Christmas! In the nick of time!

  MISS FLYTRAP: Too late, you fool. I’m soiled again! (Dear Readers, she will be soiled again next week, twice! ED.)

  COUNT MAGNUS: Auf widdershins, Herr Gog! Till next week’s spine-defying, hair-chilling, death-raising instalment!

  PICTURE FOURTEEN: THE BRITISH FLEET BLOW UP THE SS PANZER STUKA TIGERS UNDER THE WHITE CLIFFS OF DOVER, NOW RED WITH GORE.

  SUPERZAM! JUMBOBLIM! UTTERBLUNK!

  PICTURE FIFTEEN: THE YEOMEN OF THE GUARD CARVE UP THE FILTHY FIFTH COLUMN UNDER NELSON’S DITTO.

  SUPERJUMBOZAM! JUMBOUTTERBLIM!