War in Heaven, Charles Williams [novels for teenagers .txt] 📗
- Author: Charles Williams
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Suddenly, as in an excited crowd a man may one minute be speaking and shouting to those near him, and the next, part of the general movement directed and controlled by that to which he contributes, there rose within him the sense of a vast and rapid flow, of which he was part, rushing and palpitating with desire. He desired—the heat about his heart grew stronger—to give himself out, to be one with something that should submit to him and from which he should yet draw nourishment; but something beyond imagination, stupendous. He was hungry—but not for food; he was thirsty—but not for drink; he was filled with passion— but not for flesh. He expanded in the rush of an ancient desire; he longed to be married to the whole universe for a bride. His father appeared before him, senile and shivering; his wife, bewildered and broken; his sop, harassed and distressed. These were his marriages, these his bridals. The bridal dance was beginning; they and he and innumerable others were moving to the wild rhythm of that aboriginal longing. Beneath all the little cares and whims of mankind the tides of that ocean swung, and those who had harnessed them and those who had been destroyed by them were mingled in one victorious catastrophe. His spirit was dancing with his peers, and yet still something in his being held back and was not melted.
There was something—from his depths he cried to his mortal mind to recall it and pass on the message—some final thing that was needed still; some offering by which he might pierce beyond this black drunkenness and achieve a higher reward. What was the sacrifice, what the oblation that was greater than the wandering and unhappy souls whose ruin he had achieved? Heat as from an immense pyre beat upon him, beat upon him with a demand for something more; he absorbed it, and yet, his ignorance striking him with fear, shrunk from its ardent passions. It was not heat only, it was sound also, a rising tumult, acclamation of shrieking voices, thunder of terrible approach. It came, it came, ecstasy of perfect mastery, marriage in hell, he who was Satan wedded to that beside which was Satan. And yet one little thing was needed and he had it not—he was an outcast for want of that one thing. He forced his interior mind to stillness for a moment only, and in that moment recollection came.
From the shadowy and forgotten world the memory of the child Adrian floated into him, and he knew that this was what was needed. All gods had their missionaries, and this god also who was himself and not himself demanded neophytes. Deeply into himself he drew that memory; he gathered up its freshness and offered it to the secret and infernal powers. Adrian was the desirable sacrifice, an unknowing initiate, a fated candidate. To this purpose the man lying still and silent on the bed, or caught up before some vast interior throne where the masters and husbands and possessors of the universe danced and saw immortal life decay before their subtle power, dedicated himself. The wraith of the child drifted into the midst of the dance, and at the moment when Adrian far away in London stirred in his sleep with a moan a like moan broke out in another chamber. For the last experience was upon the accepted devotee; there passed through him a wave of intense cold, and in every chosen spot where the ointment had been twice applied the cold concentrated and increased. Nailed, as it were, through feet and hands and head and genitals, he passed utterly into a pang that was an ecstasy beyond his dreams. He was divorced now from the universe; he was one with a rejection of all courteous and lovely things; by the oblation of the child he was made one with that which is beyond childhood and age and time—the reflection and negation of the eternity of God. He existed supernaturally, and in Hell…
When the dissolution of this union and the return began, he knew it as an overwhelming storm. Heat and cold, the interior and exterior world, images and wraiths, sounds and odours, warred together within him. Chaos broke upon him; he felt himself whirled away into an infinite desolation of anarchy. He strove to concentrate, now on that which was within, now on some detail of the room which was already spectrally apparent to him; but fast as he did so it was gone. Panic seized him; he would have screamed, but to scream would be to be lost. And then again the image of Adrian floated before him, and he knew that much was yet to be done. With that image in his heart, he rose slowly and through many mists to the surface of consciousness, and as it faded gradually to a name and a thought he knew that the Sabbath was over and the return accomplished.
*
“He’s very restless,” Barbara said to Lionel. “I wonder if the scone upset him. There, darling, there!”
“He’s probably dreaming of going away,” Lionel answered softly. “I hope he won’t take a dislike to the place or Persimmons or anything.”
“Hush, sweetheart,” Barbara murmured. “All’s well. All’s well.”
The Archdeacon, as he considered matters, found himself confronted by several dilemmas As, for example: (1) Was the stolen chalice the Holy Graal or not? (2) Had it or had it not been taken from him on the supposition that it was? (3) Had Mr. Persimmons anything to do with the supposition or with the removal? (4) Ought he or ought he not to take an active interest in retrieving it? (5) If so, what steps ought he to take?
He felt that, so far as the property itself was concerned, he was very willing to let it slip—Graal or no Graal. But he admitted that, if by any ridiculous chance Mr. Persimmons had had to do with its removal, he should have liked the suspicions he already entertained to be clear. On the other hand, it was impossible to call in the police; he had a strong objection to using the forces of the State to recover property. Besides, the whole thing would then be likely to become public.
He was revolving these things in his mind as he strolled down the village one evening in the week after the Rackstraws had occupied the cottage on the other side of Cully. Except that Barbara, in a rush of grateful devotion, had come to the early Eucharist on the Sunday morning, and he had noticed her as a stranger, the Archdeacon knew nothing of their arrival. He had been diplomatically manoeuvred by Mr. Batesby into inviting him to stop another week or two. Mr. Batesby thought the Archdeacon ought to go for a holiday; the Archdeacon thought that he would not trouble at present. For he felt curiously reluctant to leave the neighbourhood of Cully and perhaps of the Graal.
As he came to the village he heard a voice calling him and looked up. Coming towards him was Gregory Persimmons, with a stranger. Gregory waved his hand again as they came up.
“My dear Archdeacon,” he said, shaking hands warmly, “I’m delighted to see you about again. Quite recovered, I hope? You ought to go away for a few weeks.”
“I owe you many thanks,” the Archdeacon answered politely, “not only for rescuing me from the road and taking me to the Rectory, but for so kindly and so often inquiring after me. It has really been very thoughtful of you.” He substituted “thoughtful” for “kind” at the last minute with an eye on truth.
“Not a bit, not a bit,” Persimmons said. “So glad you’re better. Have you met Sir Giles Tumulty by any chance? Sir Giles, ‘meet’ the Archdeacon of Fardles, as they say elsewhere.”
“I hear you have been set on by tramps,” Sir Giles said, as they shook hands. “Many about here?”
As the Archdeacon began to reply, Barbara Rackstraw came along the road with Adrian on their way home, and Persimmons, with a word of apology, skipped aside to meet them. The Archdeacon slurred over the subject of tramps, and proceeded casually: “I have just been reading your last book, Sir Giles. Most interesting.” He became indefinitely more pompous, a slight clericalism seemed to increase in him, “But, you know, that article on the Graal—most interesting, most interesting. And you think, er—m’m, you think true?”
“True?” Sir Giles said, “true? What do you mean—true? It’s an historical study. You might as well ask whether a book on the Casket Letters was true.”
“Umph, yes,” the Archdeacon answered, exuding ecclesiasticism. “To be sure, yes. Quite, quite. But, Sir Giles, as we happen to have met so pleasantly, I have a confession—yes, a confession to make, and a question to ask. You’ll forgive me both, I’m sure.”
Sir Giles in unconcealed and intense boredom stared at the road. Persimmons, Adrian’s hand in his, was walking slowly from them, chatting to Barbara. The Archdeacon went on talking, but the next thing that Sir Giles really heard was—“and it seemed most interesting. But it was my fault entirely, only, as I’ve kept it quite secret, I hope you won’t mind. And, if you could tell me—in strict confidence, affecting me as it does—why you cut that last paragraph out, it would of course be a very generous act on your part, though I quite realize I have no right to ask it.”
His voice ceased, but by this time Sir Giles was alert. The last paragraph cut out? There was only one last paragraph he had cut out lately. And how did this country clergyman know? His fault entirely, was it? He shook a reluctant head at the Archdeacon. “I’m rather sorry you’ve seen it,” he said. “But there’s no harm done, of course. After all, being your church, you have a kind of claim! But, as far as cutting it out—” He raised his voice. “Persimmons! Persimmons!”
The Archdeacon threw a hand out. “Sir Giles, Sir Giles, he is talking to a lady.”
“Lady be damned,” said Sir Giles. “A country wench, I suppose, or a county wench—it doesn’t signify, anyhow. Persimmons!”
Gregory made his farewells to Barbara and Adrian near a turn in the road and returned. “Yes?” he said. “Why such particular excitement?”
Sir Giles grinned. “What do you think?” he said. “The Archdeacon saw that paragraph you made me cut out. So he knew it was his church the Graal was in. And it was Persimmons,” he added to the priest, “who wanted it taken out. He pretended the evidence wasn’t good enough, but that was all nonsense. Evidence good enough for anybody.”
From the turn in the road Adrian shouted a final goodbye, and Gregory, remembering his work, turned and waved before he answered. Then he smiled at the Archdeacon, who was looking at him also with a smile. Sir Giles grinned happily, and a bicyclist who passed at the moment reflected bitterly on the easy and joyous time which such people had in the world.
“Dear me,” the Archdeacon said. “And was that the cause of the needy mission church, Mr. Persimmons?”
“Well,” Persimmons said, “I’m afraid it was. I have been something of a
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