Free Black Marsden by Wilson Harris Page B

him and hanged him. A crude and bitter tale. A tale that was consistent nevertheless with a man or a god who lived extremes, extreme existences on earth.
    A tale that grew into a legend until it eclipsed all reasonable fact. But what are or were reasonable facts? Had Rigby quarrelled with his mates? Had he left them? Had he plunged towards the Orinoco or the Amazon? Had he advanced alone into the depths of the Bush? Advanced into a pawn of the elements, claustrophobic fire, claustrophobic noons, suns, claustrophobic waterfalls, precipices of sunset, tropics of night? …
    A lorry passed on the Dean Bridge. And Goodrich lit a cigarette. He smoked rarely. Stubbed it out. It tasted like a rag….
    On the book of Sky and Creek he now drew and sketched himself afresh aged five. In that sketch or square he uprooted the rain, the snow, uprooted the Equator, uprooted the Poles. Space age five.
    “What I am sketching,” Goodrich addressed his spectre of infinity in the sleeve of earth, roped to the sky of his mind, “is a kind of cartoon I suppose. Forgive me for taking such liberties, O Spectre. I am sure there are multiplications of laughter in the workshop of the gods, divine cartoons of absurd bliss.
    “Now take me at age five. That age is out there now. There are other ages, of course, I could sketch of the child in one’s heart or head. But the one I am now looking at is square five into which my stepfather vanished when I was five years old. Harp’s father too. Rigby and Hornby Ltd. What an establishment or property of consciousness. Muse of adventure.
    “So that while it is pointless denying the sentence of the muse written into the elements, snow, ice, fire, water—while it is pointless denying this, it is justifiable, on the other hand, to dream of acquittal through a phenomenon or family tree, Brother Snow, Brother Fire. In the comedy of an interfused reading of the elements a capacity for genesis is born or reborn within us: a capacity to re-sensitize our base relations, Brother Cruelty, Brother Hate—to re-sensitize our biased globe into moveable squares within and beyond every avalanche of greed or despair: re-sensitize phenomenon fire through caveats of ice, phenomenon snow through caveats of fire, to re-sensitize the phenomenon of the Equator within each crystal flower at the Poles….”
    “Damn you!” A raucous quavering shout came. “Damn you.” A car ground to a halt. Goodrich leapt. “Are you mad?” cried the voice. “What in heaven’s name are you at? How could you … how could you step back like that off the pavement on to the road?” The driver was furious.
    “I am sorry,” said Goodrich. The voice barked afresh, angry eyes glared afresh. Then the car moved on, a brisk trail of inquisitive vehicles followed, vanished over the bridge and left Goodrich stunned, desolate. He had earned the rebuke. His spectre of infinity collapsed at his feet and lay in ruins like a beautiful imaginary pack of cards strewn everywhere; knights and kings and bishops, spades, diamonds, hearts, clubs all on their backside on the road.
    He could have been lying there now himself. Imagine that. Run over by that car. He had indeed absentmindedly stepped back on to the road. It was true. If he had been run over would he have had a flashing moment of respite to square the circle upon Sky and Creek? Square Zero? Uprooted end? Uprooted globe?
    Clothed in despondency he began to make his way slowly now along the pavement towards the bus stop hidden in a couple of trees at the end of the bridge. Then came the unearthly sound of bagpipes which made him forget himself, stop, listen. Did it rise from the old Dean village? Or did it ascend from far below in the Water of Leith? Or did it come from the city borne across the distance? The thread of music addressed him—thrilled him—immensely plaintive—conjuring up a fire music, a water music. And the fallen bishops, knights, kings, spades, hearts, heads, clubs were singing in