Like Flapping Eagle, who had already chosen ascent instead of stasis; like Dolores O’Toole, who, last night, had chosen to speak her love rather than keep silent any more; in the same way, Virgil Jones decided upon action rather than prolonged inaction. Because it was there to be done, as the chicken had been there for Flapping Eagle to kill, as Dolores’ love had been there to be declared, and as the well was there to fill. One does, in the end, what there is to do, he told himself, and stood up, straightening his bowler hat, blinking.
He snapped a last twig, and then Flapping Eagle arrived at a run.
Virgil Jones took his courage in both hands and said:
– Mr Eagle, are you still set upon climbing the mountain?
Flapping Eagle stopped, out of breath.
– Yes, he said, and was about to continue when Virgil said:
– In that case, you must permit me to be your guide.
Flapping Eagle was struck dumb by the unexpectedness of the statement.
– Mrs O’Toole, he said at last. I don’t think she’s very well.
Dolores O’Toole was still in the trunk when Virgil went into the hut-alone, on Flapping Eagle’s suggestion.
She stood up with a cry of pleasure as he came in.
– Virgil, she said. I was so afraid.
– Now, now, Dolores, he said helplessly, feeling grossly hypocritical.
She climbed out of the trunk and came to him, standing in front of him like a vulnerable chimpanzee.
– Nothing will change, will it, Virgil? she repeated.
Virgil Jones closed his eyes.
– Dolores, he said. Please try to understand. I must go up the mountain with Mr Eagle. I must.
– O good, she cried all at once, clapping her hands. I knew it would be all right.
He looked at her. -Dolores, he said. Did you hear? We are going to leave in the morning. Leave.
– Yes, she said, early in the morning. We’ll go down to the beach as usual, and I’ll carry your chair for you, clumsy and shortsighted as you are. My love.
– O god, said Virgil Jones.
– It’s not your fault, he said outside, to Flapping Eagle. Please ascribe no blame to yourself. It is my responsibility. Mea culpa.
– You’ll stay with her, of course, said Flapping Eagle.
– No, said Mr Jones. If acceptable to you, we leave tomorrow morning.
Flapping Eagle had to ask: -Why, Mr Jones? Why choose me?
Mr Jones smiled crookedly. -My dear fellow, he said, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Do you know Latin?
– No, said Flapping Eagle. Or just a few words.
– Timere Dañaos et dona ferentes, said Mr Jones. Do you follow me?
– No, said Flapping Eagle.
– Perhaps it’s just as well, said Virgil Jones, if we are to be friends.
XVII Ascent
TO KEEP DOLORES calm, Flapping Eagle had dinner alone that night, by the well; Virgil Jones brought it out to him. He was puzzled; there was a whole set of facts that didn’t add up: some awful history of which he was unaware, and which had brought Mr Jones to his surprising decision. He tried to work it out and failed; so he tried to go to sleep instead, and eventually succeeded.
Meanwhile, Virgil Jones was making a despairing attempt to break through the barrier in Dolores’ mind.
– You remember Nicholas Deggle, he said.
– O yes, said Dolores, quite normally. I never took to him. Good riddance, I thought, when he disappeared.
– He didn’t disappear, Dolores. He was thrown out. So listen: if he should arrive, don’t mention you knew me. All right?
– Very well, darling, she said equably, but you’re being foolish. Why, he’ll see you, for heaven’s sake.
– Dolores, exclaimed Virgil Jones, I’m going away!
– I love you too, said Mrs O’Toole.
Virgil shook his head in a gesture of impotence.
– Listen, Dolores, he tried again. Nicholas Deggle has a grudge against me. So don’t let him know I loved you… love you. For your own sake.
– Darling, said Mrs O’Toole, I want to tell the whole world about our love. I want to shout it out all over the island. I want…
– Dolores, said Virgil Jones. Stop. Stop.
– I’m so glad you’re staying, she said. And I’m proud of you, too.
– Proud, echoed Mr Jones.
– O yes, she said. For chasing away that spectre from Grimus. That was well done. Now nothing can happen.
– No, said Mr Jones, admitting defeat. Nothing.
That night, Virgil Jones dreamt of Liv. Tall, beautiful, deadly Liv, who had been the breaking of him so long ago. She was the centre of the whirlpool and he was falling towards her as her mouth opened in a smile of welcome and opened further and wider and opened and opened and he fell towards her and the water rushed up over his head and he broke, like a twig.
Flapping Eagle woke several times during the night, since the bare ground was both hard and lumpy. There was an itching on his chest. He scratched at it sleepily, and thought as he drifted off again: That damn scar.
That damn scar played him up sometimes.
Tiusday morning again. Misty.
Virgil Jones was shaken gently awake. He found Mrs O’Toole smiling at him, saying: -Time to get up, my love.
He got up. Methodically, he took an old bag from its peg on the wall, filling it with fruit and vegetables.
– Why ever do you need all that for the beach, dear? asked Dolores. He didn’t reply.
– I’ll need your belt now, my love, she said, attempting a dulcet tone. He dressed in silence: the black suit, the bowler hat.
– Dolores, he said, I need the belt myself today.
– O, she pouted. Well, if you’re going to be like that, I’ll manage without it.
She hoisted the chair on to her hump. -Come on, she cooed. Time to be off.
– I’m not coming with you, he said.
– All right, dear, she said; you come on behind as usual. I’ll see you down there.
– Goodbye, Dolores, he said.
She hobbled out of the hut with the rocking-chair on her back.
He collected Flapping Eagle from the wellside. The Axona had tied a cloth around his forehead and stuck a feather in at the back.
– Ceremonial dress, he joked; Virgil Jones didn’t smile.
– Let’s go, he said.
The rocking-chair sat upon the beach, with its back to the sea. Beside it, on the greysilver sands, Dolores O’Toole sat and sang her songs of mourning and requition.
– O, Virgil, she said. I’m so, so happy.
Waiting in the forests on the slopes of Calf Mountain, silent, invisible, as the fat, stumbling man and his tallish feathered companion, feather bobbing beside bowler, made their progress up the overgrown paths, watching over them and waiting, was a Gorf.
XVIII Magister Anagrammari
THE GORFIC PLANET is sometimes called Thera. It winds its way around the star Nus in the Yawy Klim galaxy of the Gorfic Nirveesu. This area is the major component of the zone sometimes termed the Gorfic Endimions. The Gorfic obsession with anagram-making ranges from simple rearrangement of word-forms to the exalted level of the Divine Game of Order. The Game extends far beyond mere letter-puzzling; the vast mental powers of the Gorfs make it possible for them anagrammatically to alter their very environment and indeed their own physical make-up-in the latter case within the severe limits imposed by their somewhat grotesque given material. The Rules of the Game are known as Anagrammar; and to hold the title of Magister Anagrammari is the highest desire of any living Gorf.
“Living” is a troublesome term, for Gorfs are not life-forms as we know them. They need no food, no water, no atmosphere, and possess only one intangible sensory tool which serves for sight, sound, touch, taste, smell and quite a lot besides: a sort of aura or emanation surrounding their huge, hard, useless bodies.