Titus Awakes

by Maeve Gilmore

  ‘Strange to say, I have no ‘‘things’’ as you call them . . . friend.’

  ‘No jokes, I said,’ and the voice of command rose two octaves in its querulous frustration. And don’t call me friend. I don’t like your tone. I’ve had my eye on you. There’s something about you I don’t like, and I’ll tell you what it is. You don’t fit in but there’s still something we can destroy. Good material. What’s your name? Where do you live? Where are all your things? What do you believe and why? Now straight answers. No cheek from you, friend.’

  ‘My name is Titus Groan. I come from a place you would never have heard of. I had great possessions. I left them. I live nowhere. I have nothing, except what you can see. I am on my way from one place to another, doing what work I can get, and I believe that each individual is more important than any social body. I am dependent on myself alone is about the longest sentence I have spoken for a long time . . . friend.’

  ‘If you say friend again, I’ll get Red to deal with you. I say friend, not you. Who do you hate?’

  ‘I don’t. Some years ago it may have been different. If I speak of now I am not involved enough or care enough, and destruction for its own sake is the fantasy of a failure. Why do you want to force your doctrines on others?’

  ‘Look, friend, I ask the questions, and if I don’t get better answers you’d better take care of what you say is all you possess – if that’s all you’ve got, then I’ll take that.’

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘Red, at the ready . . .’

  Red, hiding behind a mask so badly made that it was difficult to see what animal it was meant to represent, came up to Titus and pointed a knife at his throat.

  Titus was sure adolescents lurked behind the masks. He didn’t fear this hate-filled group whose only antidote to the emptiness of their lives was to seek to reduce the lives of others to their own level. He could see the cause of their ugly behaviour but he couldn’t remedy it.

  ‘Your name, it doesn’t make sense. What does it mean, eh, friend? And don’t be clever either.’

  ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me, although you and your friends live in a fantasy. I’d rather keep my name to myself. You know you’ve got the wrong man in me. You don’t frighten me. You threaten my life, which you are bound to accept is my only possession. If you take that, it’ll only be a transfer – I’ll become your possession then, but I can’t quite think what use I’ll be to you. A dead weight, that’s dead sure . . .’

  ‘You lot, I want Groan to myself and then I’ll issue my orders. Get out, and quick. Face towards the wall, Groan.’

  Titus leaned face against the wall, and listened to the clumsy footsteps making their way up the dark staircase.

  ‘Alright. If you want to get away with your life, you’d better convince me, and good. Make me believe you. Talk!’

  ‘Well, Mr Mangod. There is a great deal to say, and the night is far from young. Have you the stamina to listen for many hours to a tale such as you have never heard before? Why don’t you remove your mask. Whichever way I leave here, dead or alive, I’ll not give away your secret. I’ve spent enough time running, from more things than you have ever encountered . . .’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Well, no one, but Mr Mangod, forgive me if I hazard a guess that the years on your back do not add up to as many fingers and toes you carry?’

  Defeated, Mangod pulled the mask from his face. A boy of around seventeen stood before Titus. He had tow-coloured hair, cropped short, and dark eyes set close together, a high forehead gave the impression of an intelligence deeper than he possessed. His body was thin and undernourished. Titus felt a surge of pity for him. He sympathised with this youth whose yearning for something other than his own life led him into following this path that didn’t promise even a whisper of success.

  ‘Groan, I knew you weren’t right when you started to talk – or even before. That’s why I’ve sent the others away. I can’t lose face in front of them. You’ve got something I want.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I can’t pin it down. Other people would have been afraid. I don’t know if you’re brave, or if you don’t care. I’ll never be like you. I’ve got to be top, even if it’s only in a miserable little hole like this. But you haven’t laughed at me. Why not, eh, Groan?’

  Titus didn’t say that there was so much more to pity than to laugh at.

  ‘I don’t want to hear your story. I just want you to go now. I’ll have to live this down with them, you know, and someone’s going to pay for it. Get out now, Groan, and keep out of my way.’

  Titus shuffled up the dark stairs, out into the fresh air.

  32

  A Sanctuary

  ONCE MORE HE walked, and after some time he found himself out of the run-down end of the town, and from the feel and silence of his new environment he imagined himself to be on the edge of a wood, or common land. There were no lights to guide him, but his feet no longer felt concrete beneath them. A grass verge he felt by touching it with his shoe, as a blind man traces the shape of objects by the touch of his fingers, and as he walked further, so that verge became larger and softer, and he found himself preferring to walk on the grass. He became aware of a high shape to his right, and it drew him to it like a magnet. As he reached it, this time his hands explored, and they diagnosed a wall, quite a rough wall, but high and impenetrable. He thought of it as something he could rest against, not of something that was keeping him out. His fatigue guided him and he sank down, obliterating thought and hunger, and slept, with no dreams, but a thankfulness for the overpowering oblivion he was vouchsafed.

  ‘Good morning, my son.’

  Titus heard these words, but he didn’t know if he heard them or if he dreamed them.

  ‘Good morning, my son,’ he heard again, and again. Then he opened his eyes, and closed them, to hear the words once more. He sat up. It was light now. His hand touched a wall and damp grass, and with difficulty he sat up. An old man, with a fringe of white hair, dressed in a black robe, was before him.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake now. And what, may I ask, and how and why, may I ask, brings you to us?’

  ‘Oh, I think there are too many answers, too many questions.’

  ‘Well, my son, if you are hungry come with me, and there shall be no more answers to no more questions. May I suggest you come with me?’

  Titus stood up with difficulty. His back was twisted, or so it felt, as he tried to reach his height. He thought that some unseen hand had hit him a sideways blow in the small of his back as he tried to straighten up, or that blunt knives were being stuck in it at irregular intervals.

  An old dog, that had been sniffing the wall, came slowly up to him and looked at him with that frightening trust dogs possess.

  Titus shook off the sensation of knives and became himself. ‘Yes, I am hungry. I have no idea where I am, though.’

  ‘Well, why not come with me, then? I was just walking. Although old Trouper has space and plenty, he likes to explore the outer walls. He and I are given dispensation. We’re both old now, and age confers one or two blessings. Come, young man.’

  In the oncoming daylight, the three made their slow way along the edge of the wall until they came to some large stone pillars with, between them, a wooden door of enormous dimensions. To one side of it was a smaller door, which was ajar, and through this they went.

  They were walking up an overgrown path to a drawbridge, over an overgrown moat, and Titus saw ahead of him a large building. There were ecclesiastical-looking windows. They walked towards what must have been the front door. Two men in black robes were raking pink gravel into patterns like waves and, as the trio passed and displaced some of the waves, they raised their heads and nodded a silent welcome.

  They passed into the hall and a feeling of sanctuary overcame Titus. There was no sound. There was an order and a cleanliness that he had not witnessed for a long time, if ever. It had nothing to do with the polish he had
been aware of in the houses of the rich or the house-proud, but it seemed to have a purpose. He became aware of his own ramshackle appearance.

  ‘I’ll show you, first of all, to your room. You might like to cleanse yourself, after your night out, my son, and then there’ll be breakfast with the other guests. You couldn’t have chosen a better time for me to find you.’

  They walked down a corridor with doors spaced evenly all the way, until they came to one, which the old man opened. ‘This one is free.’

  It was a small, whitewashed room, with a small iron bed, and a stand with a water jug and basin. It looked out upon a lawn with a cedar tree, and the lawn sloped down to a stream.

  ‘I’ll come back in ten minutes and take you to the refectory, and you can meet your fellow guests. Then I’ll take you to meet the Prior. We don’t ask questions, you know. If you have some money to spare we should be pleased, but if you haven’t then you can do a little work. There is always plenty to do.’

  When the door had closed, Titus looked out of the window and saw a squirrel, standing upright, with its hands cradling something it had found on the grass, before turning and speeding away with it to its secret hideaway.

  The water in the jug was cold, but as he poured it into the basin and covered his face, his whole spirit lightened and the pervading serenity of the house was almost tangible.

  A knock came on the door. The old man had said he would return.

  ‘Well, then, my son. Do you feel fresher now and ready for your breakfast? Come, follow me.’

  They walked back down the corridor and through the hall, until they reached a large oak door, through which could be heard the sound of cutlery and china being used. The old man opened the door and motioned to Titus to follow. The room they entered was low and spacious: oak-panelled, and lit by three windows the height of the room, which looked on to a garden that was cared for just as everything was that he had seen.

  A long refectory table took up practically the length of the room and, as the old man led him to it, Titus saw that people were sitting on both sides of it. They were silent as they ate but sitting on a slightly raised dais at the far end of the room was a man reading aloud. Titus sat on the seat to which he had been shown and, though no one was speaking, his needs were attended to with deft and silent speed.

  Everything that was passed to him had the goodness of food made by hands that wanted to make it. The goodness of the food overwhelmed Titus and he was so hungry that he was hardly aware that he was not alone, and it was not until he could eat no more that he raised his eyes and looked across the table.

  He had been aware of an agitation, which seemed alien in the peace of the room, and he froze on his chair as he met the eyes of the man opposite. The eyes that looked deeper and beyond any eyes he had ever seen, except once before. They were the same eyes. It was the same man.

  As he looked at the other guests at the table, he could see that they were mostly men, and for whatever reason they had found their way to this retreat, they had, all but one, succeeded in achieving the inner and the outer peace they had come for. Only a dreadful restlessness, both of body and spirit, seemed to consume the man with whom he felt an affinity that was inexplicable.

  A chair jerked backwards, tearing into the polished floor, and the dreadful screech obliterated the quiet voice of the reader. He had left the room, with a slow shuffle, and when he had closed the door Titus made up his mind to seek him out.

  The meal ended in the refectory, and as it ended each person stood for a moment while a prayer of thanks was said. The room emptied and outside small groups of people spoke together, quietly, but creating the impression that each was absorbed completely in his own universe.

  One youngish man came up to Titus and in a friendly way suggested he might care to see the gardens and the buildings, but before he had time to answer the old man came up to him and said he would like to take him to the Prior.

  They crossed the hall once more and went through a door marked PRIVATE. This divided what must have been the inner world from the outer. Though glistening, it was spartan and bare, and when the old man knocked a voice of extreme cultivation bade them come in.

  ‘This is the young man who came with me.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Welcome.’

  ‘I have told him we don’t ask questions.’

  ‘That is true. But may I tell you that we have some rules. Silence in the refectory, you have already seen (if not heard!). We sleep early, and our guests do not stay late in bed. Each one is responsible for his own room. There is contemplation, but no one is asked to do anything. The people who come here all come for different reasons, but paramount for all of them is, I hope, the peace, the cleansing and the rejuvenation of their spirit, or call it what you will. You can help in any of the pursuits in the running of this house and garden, if you would care to, but if you do not wish it there is no obligation. I hope that while you are here you may find inner peace.’

  ‘Perhaps I am here under false pretences, for I did not come. I was found.’

  ‘Yes, I have been told, but once more I would like to say, we ask no questions. Peace go with you, my son.’

  The interview was ended, and Titus and the old man left the Prior.

  ‘I would like to ask you something,’ said Titus to the old man.

  The old man nodded his assent and Titus said, ‘The man . . . the man in the refectory.’

  ‘Ah, yes. We have a little knowledge, but it is not for me to break into his seclusion. I cannot.’

  ‘I know him – I have seen him. I feel as though there is a link I cannot explain.’

  ‘Perhaps that is what led you here. Who can say? I am very old and I have seen how strange are the manifestations of whatever spirit you believe in. There is nothing that cannot happen. Yes, my son, I see in him a quest, a search, a reaching beyond what might be too great for one human being. He may be too far away for us, but I have watched him in the gardens, in the house, and the wealth within is breaking the locks, overflowing. There is tenderness. I have seen him fondling a bird with a broken wing, and mend it as best he could. I have seen him looking, looking, until he could look no more, at everything around. I have seen him play with the children who come here to lend a hand. He was at one with them and they with him. He has done drawings for them. I have seen him laughing with them, and making little jokes. I have never seen him hurt any living person or thing. And yet, my son, he causes discomfort. The guests do not understand, and I think he will have to leave. He is restless. So restless. He disturbs them. At night he cannot sleep. I have found him many times. His words will not come, and his sighs break my heart. I have led him back to his room and remade his bed as many as ten times in one night. Sometimes he falls, for his steps are halting, and his feet drag almost as though there were an invisible ball and chain on them. And when he wishes to thank me, and cannot, then is the only time I see anger in his eyes. There are paper and pencils and pens in his room, and drawings, and there is writing and the room is untidy. Sometimes, when his words come, he talks to the Prior, and with the intelligence there is so much humour. What can I say, my son? To understand such things is not for me to query. Can I accept? It is not for me. I am simple, and my life has been simple. I have no answers. I do accept. I do pray. But I am sure that he will have to leave. There are so many here who have come for rest and quiet, and we owe it to them to allow them that pleasure.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Titus left the old man and walked back to his quarters. It had been some time since he had been alone, in a physical way, and his sense of well-being exacerbated his lassitude, and he slept heavily, waking only when the day was almost over. The silence everywhere gave him no clue of time, but he reached for a small light near his bed, and the light gave him the impetus to jump up, before he had time to think about doing so.

  He made his way out into the corridor and, like an animal in search of food, he turned towards the refectory. The animal sense that had awakened him
proved right, for it seemed that a meal had just begun.

  He saw his fellow guests raise their eyes at his entrance, with varying degrees of welcome and recognition, and he took his place where he had breakfasted. The eyes of the man opposite watched as he sat down, and his hunger abated as he felt his stomach flip. He could see by the eyes and the faltering hands, which played with the food on the plate, that the restlessness that could not be concealed was becoming too big a burden, and the strident screech of the chair on the floor once more broke the silence, striking a note of discord. Although the fellow guests tried to hide their feelings, there were one or two who raised their eyebrows and shook their heads, as they watched the sad, stumbling exit of the man they did not seem to understand.

  Titus could no longer stay. He followed, and it was not long before he overtook the man. He was standing. His eyes were closed and he seemed rooted to the floor. His legs were too heavy to move, but he could not stand upright without swaying. Titus put out his arm as a prop and held the swaying body. The man made to move one leg with the diffidence of a child learning to walk, and in his frailness he would have fallen, save for the protective arm.

  ‘Thank you,’ a voice with no strength behind it whispered.

  The two figures stood in the silent corridor, waiting for the momentum that would once again start up the faulty engine.

  They stood for some minutes as the legs and arms jerked as though they did not belong to the torso that owned them, then suddenly the engine restarted, and Titus was surprised by the speed with which they moved along the corridor to a room like his own, but alive with a life of its own, untidy mounds of paper on the table and crumpled balls of paper thrown around in disarray. Plus bottles of ink and paints. There were drawings, and sheets of paper with writing on them, and it seemed that they were the sustenance of life, that here were the warlocks, almost the vehicles of destruction of a man’s life, but at the same time the very reason for his living.