We artists who remained, myself and Brash and indeed, even Purse Snippet, we regarded Sellup with an admixture of abhorrence and fascination. Cruel the irony that she adored a poet who was not even around.
No matter. The afternoon stretched on, and of the cloudy thoughts in this collection of cloudy minds, who could even guess? A situation can fast slide into both the absurd and the tragic, and indeed into true horror, and yet for those in its midst, senses adjust in their unceasing search for normality, and so on we go, in our assembly of proper motions, the swing of legs, the thump of heels, lids blinking over dust-stung eyes, and the breath goes in and the breath goes out.
Normal sounds comfort us. Hoofs and carriage wheels, the creak of springs and squeal of axles. Pilgrims upon the trail. Who, stumbling upon us at that moment, might spare us little more than a single disinterested glance? Walk your own neighbourhood or village street, dear friends, and as you see nothing awry grant yourself a moment and imagine all that you do not see, all that might hide behind the normal moment with its normal details. Do this and you will come to understand the poet’s game.
Thoughts to ruminate upon, perhaps, as the twenty-fourth day draws to a close.
A Recounting of the Twenty-fourth Night
‘WE MADE GOOD time this day,’ announced our venerable host, once the evening meal was done and the picked bones flung away into the night. The fire was merry, bellies were full, and out in the dark something voiced curdling cries every now and then, enough to startle Steck Marynd and he would stroke his crossbow like a man with too many barbs on his conscience (What does that mean? Nothing. I just liked the turn of phrase).
‘In fact,’ Sardic Thew continued, beaming above the ruddy flames, ‘we may well reach the Great Descent to the Landing within a week.’ He paused, and then added, ‘Perhaps it is at last safe to announce that our terrible ordeal is over. A few days of hunger, is that too terrible a price to pay for the end to our dread tithe among the living?’
Midge grunted. ‘What?’
‘Well.’ The host cleared his throat. ‘The cruel fate of these few remaining poets, I mean.’
‘What about it?’
Sardic Thew waved his hands. ‘We can be merciful! Don’t you see?’
‘What if we don’t want to be?’ Tiny Chanter asked, grinning greasily (well, in truth he was most fastidious, was Tiny, but given the venal words issuing from those lips, I elected to add the grisly detail. Of course, there is nothing manipulative in this).
‘But that – that – that would be—’
‘Outright murder?’ Apto Canavalian enquired, somewhat too lightly in my opinion.
Brash choked and spat, ‘It’s been that all along, Apto, though when it’s not your head on the spitting block, you just go ahead and pretend otherwise.’
‘I will, thank you.’
‘Just because you’re a judge—’
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ Apto cut in. ‘Not one of you here is getting my vote. All right? The truth is, there’s nothing so deflating as actually getting to know the damned poets I’m supposed to be judging. I feel like a far-sighted fool who finally gets close enough to see the whore in front of him, warts and all. The magic dies, you see. It dies like a dried-up worm.’
Brash stared with eyes bulging. ‘You’re not going to vote for me?’ He leapt to his feet. ‘Kill him! Kill him next! He’s no use to anyone! Kill him!’
As Brash stood trembling, one finger jabbed towards Apto Canavalian, no one spoke. Abruptly, Brash loosed a sob, wheeling, and ran off into the night.
‘He won’t go far,’ opined Steck. ‘Besides, I happen to agree with our host. The killing isn’t necessary any more. It’s over—’
‘No,’ said an unexpected voice, ‘it is not over.’
‘Lady Snippet,’ Steck began.
‘I was promised,’ she countered, hands wringing about the cup she held. ‘He gave me his word.’
‘So I did,’ said I. ‘Tonight, however, I mean to indulge the interests of all here, by concluding poor Calap Roud’s tale. Lady, will you abide me until the morrow?’
Her eyes were most narrow in their regard of me. ‘Perhaps you mean to outlast me. In consideration of that, I will now exact yet another vow from you, Avas Didion Flicker. Before we reach the Great Descent, you will satisfy me.’
‘So I vow, Milady.’
Steck Marynd rose. ‘I know the tale you will tell tonight,’ he said to me, and to the others he said, ‘I will find Nifty Gum and his ladies and bring them back here, for I fear they must be suffering greatly this night.’
‘Sudden compassion?’ said Tulgord Vise with a snort.
‘The torment must end,’ Steck replied. ‘If I am the only one here capable of possessing guilt, then so be it.’ And off he went, boots crunching in the gravel.
Guilt. Such an unpleasant word, no doubt invented by some pious meddler with snout pricked to the air. Probably a virgin, too, and not by choice. A man (I assert it must have been a man, since no woman was ever so mad as to invent such a concept, and to this day for most women the whole notion of guilt is as alien to them as flicking droplets after a piss, then shivering), a man, then, likely looking on in outrage and horror (at a woman, I warrant, and given his virginal status she was either his sister or his mother), and bursting into his thoughts like flames from a brimstone, all indignation was transformed into that maelstrom of flagellation, spite, envy, malice and harsh judgement that we have come to call guilt. Of course, the accusation, once uttered, is also a declaration of sides. The accuser is a creature of impeccable virtue, a paragon of decency, honour, integrity and intransigence, unsullied and unstained since the moment of birth. Why, flames of purest white blaze from that quivering head, and some force of elevation has indeed lifted the accuser from the ground, feet alight on the air, and somewhere monstrous musicians pound drums of impending retribution. In accusing, the accuser seeks to crush the accused, who in turn has been conditioned to cringe and squirm, to holler and rage, or some frenzied cavort between the two, and misery must result. Abject self-immolation, depression, the wearing of ugliness itself. Whilst the accuser stands, observing, triumphant and quivering in the ecstasy of the righteous. It’s as good as sex (but then, what does the virgin know about sex?).
What follows? Why, not much. Usually, nothing. He dozes. She starts chopping dirty carrots or heads out and beats stained garments against a rock (said gestures having no symbolic significance whatsoever). The baby looks on, eating the cat’s tail and the cat, knowing nothing of guilt, stares with bemused regard upon the wretched family it has adopted, before realizing that once again the horrid urchin is stuffing it into its mouth, and once again it’s time to use the runt as a bed-post. The mind is a dark realm and shadows lurk and creep behind the throne of reason, and none of us sit that throne for long in any case, so let them lurk and creep, what do we care?
‘As night came to the Imass camp,’ said I, ‘she led the Fenn warrior towards an empty hut which he was free to use as his own until such time that he chose to depart. In the chill darkness she carried a small oil lamp to guide their way, and the flame flickered in the bitter wind, and he strode behind her, his footfalls making no sound. Yet she did not need to turn around to be certain he followed, for she felt the heat of him, like a kiln at her back. He was close, closer than he need be.