Free Black Marsden by Wilson Harris Page A

Immerse himself in every historical scarecrow like a rich tramp. When he felt more luxuriously inclined he would hire a car and a chauffeur for the day, make for himself a swifter patchwork cloak, patchwork miles.
    He raised himself up now and peered over the Dean Bridge at the steep and narrow valley of the Water of Leith. Many a poor devil had taken his life here—leapt from this bridge; leapt from Sky into Creek, sudden pouring light into inexplicable darkness; suspended pawn in the workshop of the gods. The thought fascinated him—the thought of a woven texture or chessboard of visibles and invisibles: the thought that here ,somewhere out there in space beneath him were squares of light and darkness in which something moved, disappeared, pawn or knight moved, bishop or king disappeared. Something moved, reappeared, flashed again, darkened….
    In his diary of infinity Goodrich had been constructing for many years a diagram to symbolize his existences on earth through intensities of love and hate. For one lived many lives, died many deaths through others. There was a renascence or flowering, or a deeper accent of eclipse upon buried personalities—actors in a tabula rasa drama—in every encounter one enjoyed or endured. Something died. Something was born. Each element of participation carried within it new and undreamt-of senses or constellations.
    Goodrich knew the Dean Bridge quite well and loved the view when he looked into the valley. Nothing perverse. He had no intention of leaping there himself. Nor was he morbidly held by past suicides, poor guardian angels roped to poorer unguarded devils sentenced by fate. Yet he was intuitively aware of enigmatic squares of suspended darkness and lights knitted into the pawn of himself (the knight, bishop, king, child of dreams in himself)—his own voluntary and involuntary chessboard.
    As he looked over the bridge with the occasional rumble of a vehicle in his back he saw not ruined man, doomed men dropping below but a curious self-portrait of himself aged five standing (or drawn) within one of those squares of light or darkness, suspended dark sentence, suspended light arena of judgement. It was a traumatic target, traumatic suspension, naïve, enigmatic grieving child with the head of lost and found men on his shoulders, lost and found self-judge, lost and found self-judged.
    He was five when his stepfather Rigby vanished in the heartland of Brazil. Vanished into a square of Bastard Sky or Creek as Harp’s father Hornby had vanished. No wonder, Goodrich mused, when he met Harp they had taken to one another like a house on fire, like lost brothers and the shadow of a curious host spectre enveloped them. They were drawn to each other upon the same square as it were—tabula rasa slate inserted into the globe.
    The strength of coincidence now seemed a property of bias. Biased property one was inclined to say. Hornby and Rigby Ltd. Goodrich could not help marvelling in himself as he stared into the distant Water of Leith. Life was stranger than property. His stepfather Rigby had vanished in Brazil the very year, the very day Hornby and Hornby had established a pattern of legend in the Arctic. It was a judgement and equally acquittal of intuitive spaces knitted into the globe. It was an intimate parallel, Pole and Equator.
    Rigby was a temperamental Scot who had made or lost fortunes in a year or a day. When he was down-and-out he knew how to scrape the bottom of the barrel. He knew how to make ends meet. (It was a lesson Goodrich’s mother had never forgotten when hard times descended upon them and Rigby vanished.) When he was well off he knew how to spend magnanimously, wholeheartedly. He made loyal friends and bitter enemies. On his disappearance it was rumoured there was more to his death than met the eye. Rumour had it he had killed a man in self-defence, killed one of his Brazilian mates, and that the rest had turned on him, crazed by the jungle, tried him, sentenced