Many Dimensions, Charles Williams [black authors fiction TXT] 📗
- Author: Charles Williams
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and being caught in an everlasting cleaning of some stone corridor. All
wrong metaphysically, no doubt, he protested—but possible—no, not
possible: no more than sudden passage from place to place or a Stone
that divided itself and was yet unchanged.
Ibrahim answered, “You need but take it into your hand and will.”
“And you?” Arglay said. “Will you do it with me?”
The Hajji hesitated. “It is almost sacrilege,” he murmured,
“yet it is with a right desire. I dare not use my will, but I may sit
by you while you use your own. So much is perhaps not against my
oath…. Under the Protection.” He stretched out his hand. “Take the
Stone and let it lay in your palm, and I will put my hand over it, and
set your desire to know what Giles Tumulty does and purposes.”
“And for the return?” Arglay asked.
“That is with Allah,” Ibrahim said. “Will you dare it now?”
For all answer the Chief justice pulled an armchair near and parallel
to his visitor’s; then he sat down in it and laid his arm on the arm of
the chair. On his palm the Stone rested. Ibrahim laid his own hand
lightly over it and so they remained,
Arglay, as he leaned back, formed in his mind, out of the impulse of
distaste which grew in it, the image of Giles Tumulty. He suppressed,
as quickly as he could, the criticisms of his brother-in-law which he
was tempted to make to himself, he compelled them to define the central
idea more exactly. Then he released upon that image the anxiety which
had possessed him; he made a demand of it and sent it out to compel an
answer. The antipathy he always felt grew stronger but it was
controlled and directed by his intention; Giles’s mind should lie open
to his, he was determined. He felt, but without attending to it,
Ibrahim’s hand quiver upon his, as he was still vaguely aware of the
chair on which he was sitting. Slowly those details of sensation
vanished, and instead he became aware that he was holding, or seemed to
be holding, a living thing, a moving, pulsating something which he
hated. It was approaching him; he drove his detestation forward to meet
it. The sensation of enclosing it in his hand disappeared; physical
connection ceased, and he seemed to know as a mental experience alone.
Only that experience now existed; he was repelled, yet since nothing
but repulsion was to be felt it was that which passionately concerned
his whole being. He allowed that repulsion to enter him, but as his
spirit seemed to retire before it, so at the same time it overcame and
dominated it. There ensued a moment’s balance between those contending
forces; they swung equal and then the effort ceased. His mind was aware
of an ordered arrangement, as if in the outer world it had been
considering the plan of a great city; he concentrated his attention
even more strongly, and found himself conscious of an overpowering
desire.
But it was a consciousness purely intellectual; the normal confusion of
the mind by the emotions was absent. He was not concerned to excuse,
justify, or condemn the desire he felt existing; rather he observed it
merely. Nor indeed was he at first clear what he was considering, until
there shaped itself against the darkness a face, a large, youthful,
eager face which was gazing at him with a docile attention. It had red
hair, a rather squab nose, a high colour, a weak mouth slightly open,
brown and expectant eyes. His mind remarked that it was a face hitherto
unseen; it reported at the same time a hatred of the face, combined
with a desire to see it hurt and damaged -yet not in mere uselessness
but in the process of extracting some personal profit out of its
existence and its pain. The face removed itself to a little distance
and developed into the whole figure of a young man, a lower middle-class young man, who was speaking. A small, very distant voice floated
into his mind. “Yes,” it was saying, “yes, sir; and then?” He heard
another strange voice—an older, sharper voice—say, “That’s the whole
thing; you understand?” and the rest of his being underwent a sudden
spasm of delight.
“Christ Almighty,” Lord Arglay thought suddenly, “this is happening,”
and with the momentary distraction the form flickered and seemed to
fade. But he made a desperate effort to hold it, and at once a strength
flowed out from him. The young man’s figure no longer appeared alone;
it was in a room, a long room, with windows, instruments, books, and
there was another figure by it. A tall, lean, oldish man, with
a sharp anxious face, was standing there,playing with something in his
hand. It was one of the Stones—no, it was the Crown itself, and with
the sight his mind realized what and where it was. It was looking out,
his mind, through Giles Tumulty’s eyes; it was Giles Tumulty’s desire
that it knew; it was Giles Tumulty’s experiment that was beginning—and
Christopher Arglay’s mind that watched it.
But that mind was so detached that it seemed incapable of staying or
hastening the intention that flowed around it; as often as it turned
inwards to realize its own separate existence the appearances which it
beheld mingled and faded. It was suspended and observant.
Yet, as if on the outskirts of its own nature, it presently found
itself observing other thoughts. Much the same argument that Arglay had
already gone over flashed through it; scattered phrases-“if he just
disappears”-” time and place” -“I wonder what Arglay would say to
this”-struck it and passed. The figure of the young man put out its
hand and received something from the tall man. Lord Arglay’s mind made
an effort forward. “Stop, you fool,” it knew itself thinking, and heard
Giles’s voice say, close and loud, “Calm now, quite calm. just make as
near an image of what you were doing as you can.”
The alien mind that received those words shuddered with the horror. But
the mental habits of so many years befriended it then; it realized, as
it felt the pang, that it could do nothing then and there. It must act
in its own medium; on the crowd of diabolic curiosities that surged
around it, it could produce no effect. “I am here,” Lord Arglay’s mind
said to itself, “by my will and the virtue of the Stone. I can do
nothing here—nothing. I must return by virtue of the Stone.” It sought
to shut out the vision in front of it; it sought to concentrate on
itself and to will to know again the vehicle that was natural to it.
And even as it did so Lord Arglay heard a voice saying to him: “Have
you seen? have you seen?”
He was lying back in his own chair. Beside him Hajji Ibrahim was
looking anxiously at him. The Stone? yes, the Stone still lay quietly
enough on his palm. Lord Arglay stared at it as if his eyes would never
shift. Then very slowly he got to his feet and laid it carefully on the
table. As he did so Ibrahim repeated: “Have you seen?”
“Yes,” Lord Arglay said, again slowly. “Yes, I have seen. And if what I
have seen is true, and if it is as I fear it may be, I will choke Giles
Tumulty’s life out of him myself. Have you seen?”
“I think I slept and dreamed. And in my dream-” the Hajji said, and
described the room and the two forms. But he went on—“Also I saw a
little brownish man standing by a table, and his eyes were all alight
with curiosity and desire. Also I saw,” and he began to tremble, “that
they had again divided the Stone; for they did not give the Crown to
the youth, but only a Stone. I think they are very evil men.”
“I believe you care more about the division of the Stone than about the
harm they may do with it,” Arglay dispassionately said.
“Certainly I do,” the Hajji answered, “for the one is an offence
against the Holy One, but the other only against man. He who divides
the Unity is a greater sinner than he who makes a mock of his brother.”
“You may be right,” Lord Arglay said, “but of the Unity I know nothing,
and of man I know something.” He stamped suddenly with sheer rage. “Why
did I return?” he cried out.
“You did wisely,” the Hajji said, “for you had not gone to fight his
will but to observe it. You will not find it easy, I know now, to break
Giles Tumulty’s will, and you could not have done it in that way.
Consider that, if what you fear has happened, this young man’s mind
will not perhaps suffer so much, for in the very nature of things he
will not know that he is living but that one period of past time over
and over again, until the day when the End of Desire shall come indeed;
nay, for all we know, he may be saved from many evils so.”
“He may be saved from what you will,” Lord Arglay said, and his face
set as he spoke, “but no human being shall be turned into an automaton
at the will of Giles Tumulty while I am living and sane.”
There was a short silence, then Arglay went on. “But you are so far
right that we do not know what arrangements Giles has made, nor what
the end of this experiment of his may be. And till we know where the
Types of the Stone all are—if that is what you call them—we must move
slowly. Tomorrow I will go to the Foreign Office again, and after that
we will talk with one another further.”
The Hajji stood up. “The Peace be upon you,” he said.
“It will be a peace that passeth all understanding then,” the Chief
Justice answered, and took him to the door.
THE LOSS OF A TYPE
Nor was Lord Arglay any nearer to an apprehension of that mystical
Peace when he discovered on the next morning, that everybody had taken
advantage of the week-end to vanish from London. Mr. Bruce Cumberland
was expected back on Monday; so was Mr. Reginald Montague; so was Mr.
Angus M. Sheldrake. As for Sir Giles he might be back any moment, but
so far as he was expected at all it was on Monday. The Persian
Ambassador even (not that he was wanted) had gone to Sandringham,-so
The Times saidwhere presumably he and Lord Birlesmere were being
diplomatic. London—to the Chief Justice’s irritation—consisted of
himself, the Hajji, and Chloe, neither of whom seemed at the moment
to be much good to him. He thought of confronting Sir Giles, wherever
he might be, but he was unwilling to give his brother-in-law that
advantage of circumstances which he would then undeniably possess, and
at last he resigned himself to spending a day of enmity deferred which,
if it did not make his heart sick, made it at least extremely and
unusually sullen.
He would not have been any happier if he had known what was happening,
on that same Saturday morning, at a country house some fifty miles out
of London, the property of Mr. Sheldrake and his occasional retreat
from high finance and the complications of industry when he was in
England. The Chief Justice had done him some wrong in limiting him to
gallipots; actually there were few branches of production and
distribution in which he had not, somehow or other, a share. These
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