The Spire

  ‘It’s another lesson. The lesson for this height. Who could have foreseen that this was part of the scheme? Who could know that at this height the thing I thought of as a stone diagram of prayer would lift up a cross and fight eye to eye with the fires of the Devil?’

  Then the workmen came back into his head, and the woman with the golden pattern of her feet, and he wept bitterly without knowing what he wept for unless it was the sins of the world. At last, when his eyes were dry, he sat gazing drearily over the rim to where the bale fires leapt.

  Slowly his mind came back to its own life. If David could not build the temple because he had blood on his hands, what is to be said of us, and of me? Then the terrible christening leapt into his eye and he cried out; and then, just when he had put it away again, a host of memories flew together. He watched, powerless to stop as they added to each other. They were like sentences from a story, which though they left great gaps, still told enough. It was a story of her and Roger and Rachel and Pangall and the men. He was staring down — down past the ladders, the floors of wood, the vaulting, down to a pit dug at the crossways like a grave made ready for some notable. The disregarded bale fires shuddered round the horizon, but there was ice on his skin. He was remembering himself watching the floor down there, where among the dust and rubble a twig with a brown, obscene berry lay against his foot.

  He whispered the word, in the high, dark air.

  ‘Mistletoe!’

  So at last, he tried to pray again; but she came, treading the golden maze with bowed head and billowing dress, and the bale fires shuddered round them both. He groaned, out of his terror.

  ‘I am bewitched.’

  He went halting down the ladders, without seeing them; and the story, with the disjunct sentences, burned before his mind; and at the crossways, the replaced paving stones were hot to his feet with all the fires of hell.

  Chapter Nine

  After that he no longer laughed with the men but exhorted them. He found that though they could neither feel nor see his angel they drew some comfort from it; and that way, August came in and went out, and the spire drew towards its end. They needed the comfort of his angel, in those days, since the wind began to blow. There was one August gale from the south west that set the spire swaying like a mast; but though the pillars were bent, they did not break. It was during that gale that Father Adam told him the Lady Alison would write no more; but was coming to see him.

  The gale never went away completely. It left rough weather, rain first, then a clear day, then rain again; and just when September might have brought a week’s fine weather to finish the work in, it produced a sky of great height as though it were about to reveal the dimensions of the storm that was to follow. So all that time the men wrestled and swore at the capstone and the wind plucked at them; and Jocelin searched the dull reaches of the river towards the sea for a glimpse of the Holy Nail; and in his mind it came shining and powerful out of the glow of Rome where the bishop still was. He thought that perhaps the weather knew something of all this and was making haste, for it began to squeeze bursts of rain out of the air like slingshot, so that although the men were wet, they were warm with the stinging. That was how they set the capstone in place with the wind turning their tunics over their heads. For two days, with the spire vibrating, they dismantled scaffolding, left nothing but the few members for the final placing of the cross with the Nail in a box at its base. On the first of those days, Jocelin saw the Nail fifteen miles away — a long, straggling procession from village to village. But before the day was out, clouds were moving below them so he could no longer see the procession and the Visitor. All the time he exhorted the men, with rain running down his naked legs, and the wind pushing. When all was done, they dropped down into the warmth of the inside, down the shuddering ladders to the enclosed floor at the top of the tower. Jehan pushed them into place, and gave each man a maul. Then there was a long pause, the men with their mauls by the wedges, and Jehan eyeing the whole mechanism.

  He turned to Jocelin at last.

  ‘We should have more men.’

  ‘Get them then.’

  ‘Where?’

  Then there was a pause. The dumb man hummed gently from his empty mouth. Jehan looked at the windlass.

  ‘If we don’t do it now, it’ll be too late.’

  He went to the windlass, unbent the fastenings, gave the bar a half turn and stopped, cocking his ear at the wooden dunce’s cap in the spire above them, the whole hundred and fifty feet of it. The cable still ran ironfast round the octagon, binding the wedges against all the weight of wood.

  ‘Tap the wedges. Gently!’

  There was no new noise except the tapping. He gave the bar another half turn.

  ‘Tap them again.’

  He walked round, beating his hands together.

  ‘I just don’t know. I don’t know. He ought to be here, the fat bastard!’

  The bar hummed and the cable leapt. The cone of wood gave a splintering grind that turned to a shriek; then the octagon came down and the wedges shot sideways like plum stones from between thumb and finger. The crash when the octagon hit the bed went beyond thunder, was physical in the ear; and the tower bounced under foot. Jocelin fell on his knees, and among all the noises of rearrangement he heard the howling descent where the others were fighting their way down the ladders. The cone racked, splinters and dust and stone chips danced over the boards. Above his head the cone warped agonisingly and tore and split. He knelt there, hugging himself while the cone subsided to a groaning and occasional shriek of wood. Then the sound of the wind took over; but now it had other instruments to play on and experimented with them. Each movement of the spire sounded them and they were not in concert.

  At last he knelt upright. Only a little while now, he thought, and I shall have peace. I must get the Nail.

  Then he went to the ladder and clambered down it.

  But there was no peace, even at the bottom of the corkscrew stair. It was as if the slackening of the cable had been accompanied by the tightening of another. This one was round his chest. He thought: I know what it is. It’s become a race between me and the Devil. We’re going faster, both of us, racing for the line. But I shall win.

  He stood on the pavement of the crossways. He listened for a while and the cable tightened as he heard the beast pawing at the windows of the clerestory, trying to get in. But now there was more than one. They were legion. They were everywhere outside, they tried the doors and windows, as if mustering and planning the final assault. So he knew the need for haste and he hurried away into the cloisters. But the Chapter met him there, disorganised, clamouring and crowded.

  ‘Where is It?’

  But instead of giving it to him, they pressed round him, and laid hands on him, speaking and even shouting, incomprehensibly. Someone pulled the skirt of his gown back and down so that it hung as in the old days. He felt hands that smoothed his hair and he understood what they wanted. So he shouted back at them.

  ‘I shall say nothing more until you give It to me.’

  Then there was comparative quiet, except for the noise of the choir boys from the other side of the cloisters, so that he had time to look the Persons over, and the Vicars Choral, and the Deputies. They are as bad as the army, he thought; only there aren’t any men among them with the same courage.

  The devils whispered in the high branches of the cedar.

  Then Father Anonymous gave It to him in a silver box, and he received It kneeling on his knees so that some of the others knelt too. But he pressed It against the cable that lay round his chest, hurried into the choir and laid It on the High Altar, where It burned brightly in the box and there was a song round It; only he could not hear the words. He said to the Nail ‘Oh be quick!’, for he knew that when It was driven he would have peace. So he went back to where they were waiting for him. He looked them over from inside the cable and he saw that there were many new faces; or rather that they were the old faces, now seen in a new lig
ht. They had been busy during the last year at groundlevel. They went in new pairs and trios. They had not as he had (and the devils whimpered) complications in their heads, but many small things which was why life was easy for them. Moreover they were small themselves, and growing smaller as he watched them.

  He heard Anselm speak softly.

  ‘Why shouldn’t he see him as he is?’

  After that, there was a pause, while the crowd of them became smaller than the smallest children of the choir. Then these children began to rearrange themselves. They took little shuffling steps to one side or the other, but always their faces watched him as though they would like to see inside his head. They formed themselves into two ranks leading away from him so that they left a path; and the great doors of the chapter house were at the other end of it. He looked at the doors. He thought to himself; The Visitor will understand that I have become a workman, a stone mason, a carpenter, because it was necessary.

  They opened one leaf of the door for him and he went through. He stood inside, and looked up at the windows where the devils were pawing. But he knew it was unimportant if they should make an entry here. So he was free to look down again; and there was the commission, ranged behind a long table covered with documents; seven men of full stature. So he went forward and knelt beside the chair set for witnesses and gave his name.

  ‘Jocelin. Dean of the Cathedral Church of Our Lady.’

  All seven men were watching him. The two secretaries had looked up from writing, the feathers lying back from their hands. The Visitor himself had half-risen from his chair, and was leaning forward, his hands on the table. He was a darkfaced man, deeply lined, shaggy about the eyebrows, his eyes set far back in his head. His robes of black and white fell round him amply. He examined Jocelin for a while, then courteously indicated the chair. Jocelin stood up and bowed; and the commission stood up and bowed like the crest of a wave. He sat in the chair as they sank again; and he said nothing, but watched their heads nodding and muttering together.

  At last the Visitor turned back to him.

  ‘It’s not the proper procedure, My Lord. But perhaps —’

  ‘Ask what you like, and I shall answer.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The Visitor smiled suddenly. He understands, thought Jocelin inside the cable. He is on my side, and he is full size.

  But the Visitor was speaking again.

  ‘Perhaps, as a preliminary, it would simplify things.’

  Simplify things, thought Jocelin. If that’s what he wants, I can help him.

  ‘They think I’m mad.’

  Then there was silence again, while he inspected his mind, and gave up. He nodded solemnly at the Visitor.

  ‘Perhaps I am.’

  Their heads went together again. After all, he thought, I haven’t simplified things, I’ve complicated them. He groaned and put up a hand to his head and felt something in his hair. He pulled out a curled shaving, bent it over his fingers, stretched it till it snapped, then threw the pieces away. One of the secretaries, nodding, got up out of the mutter, bowed quickly and hurried away.

  The Visitor spoke again, gently.

  ‘We had drawn up a list of questions, taken from the representations and depositions.’

  ‘Representations? Depositions?’

  ‘But surely you knew? Some of them are dated from as much as two years ago!’

  He examined the two years.

  ‘I’ve been preoccupied.’

  The Visitor was smiling openly now.

  ‘Some of the questions are irrelevant in the circumstances, I think. For example, the matter of the candles.’

  ‘What candles?’

  The Visitor was examining a document that had been passed to him. There was a curious note in his voice.

  ‘This Person appears to believe that Holy Church has suffered a mortal blow because for two years the faithful haven’t been burning candles in the nave of the Cathedral.’

  ‘Anselm!’

  ‘He’s your Sacrist, isn’t he? He appears to derive a significant proportion of his income from the sale of candles; though of course his prime objection is on a much loftier and spiritual plane. Yes. Father Anselm, a Principal Person, and Lord Sacrist of the Cathedral Church of Our Lady. He has a personal seal.’

  ‘Anselm!’

  (Going away, diminishing, vanishing backwards down a long tunnel —)

  ‘My Lord Dean. Perhaps we should see our way more clearly if you would assent to or dissent from certain general — accusations.’

  ‘I said ask what you like.’

  ‘Indeed I shall, My Lord.’

  The Visitor shuffled documents. Jocelin waited, hands clasped before his chest, as he inspected the row of sandals under the table. Presently the Visitor looked up.

  ‘Would you agree that the, what is referred to here as “The Rich Fabric of Constant Praise”, has been unnecessarily interrupted?’

  Jocelin nodded emphatically.

  ‘It’s true. How true it is! So true!’

  ‘Explain then.’

  ‘Before we began to build, we sealed off the east end as best we could, and held the services in the Lady Chapel.’

  ‘It’s the common practice.’

  ‘So at that time the services continued. But later, you see, men felt there was some danger. When the pillars began to sing, and then bend, there was none of the chapter, none of the laity, no one who dared to worship there.’

  ‘In fact, the services of the church came to an end?’

  Jocelin looked up quickly and spread his hands.

  ‘No. Not if you can see — all the complications. I was there, all the time. It was a kind of service. I was there, and they were there, adding glory to the house.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The workmen. There were fewer and fewer of them of course; but some stayed right to the end.’

  The Visitor said nothing; but he felt himself understood, and hurried on.

  ‘I don’t know what names and seals — except one — are affixed to those documents you have there, nor what the complaints are, except in general terms. All I know is, I looked for men of faith to be with me; and there was none.’

  He saw the Visitor found it a good and unexpected answer. All at once, before the friendly face, he was overcome with a passion to explain everything.

  ‘You see, there were three sorts of people. Those who ran, those who stayed, and those who were built in. Pangall —’

  ‘Ah yes. Pangall.’

  ‘She’s woven into it everywhere. She died and then she came alive in my mind. She’s there now. She haunts me. She wasn’t alive before, not in that way. And I must have known about him before, you see, down in the vaults, the cellarage of my mind. But it was all necessary, of course. Like the money.’

  ‘We must examine the question of money for a moment. Is this your seal? And this?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes.’

  ‘Are you wealthy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How are these to be paid then?’

  ‘As He supported the pillars and provided the Nail.’

  There it came again, the notsong, the absence of remembering, the overriding thing — He saw without interest, the secretary steal back to his place, and saw that Father Anonymous was standing behind and a little to one side of the chair set for witnesses. He heard the devils paw and rattle at the windows. He ran in his mind to get to the spire before them.

  ‘My Lord, while we talk here, it may fall. Let me take It now, and drive It in!’

  The Visitor was looking at him intently, under his thick eyebrows.

  ‘You believe that the spire, for want of a nail —’

  Jocelin held up his hand quickly, to stop the Visitor. Frowning, he strove to catch the song, so nearly teetering on the edge of memory; but it faded away, as Anselm had faded. He looked up, to see the Visitor leaning back, and smiling strangely.

  ‘My Lord Dean, I have nothing but respectful admiration for your
faith.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘You spoke of a woman. Who is she? Our Lady?’

  ‘Oh no! Indeed no! Nothing like that. She was his wife, Pangall’s. After I found the mistletoe berry you see —’

  ‘When was this?’

  The question was hard and sharp as the edge of stone. He saw that the seven men had stopped every movement, and were looking at him intently, soberly, as if he were on trial.

  That’s it, he thought. Why didn’t I think of it before? I’m on trial.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. A long time ago.’

  ‘What did you mean about people being “built in”?’

  He held his head in his hands, shut his eyes and swayed from side to side.

  ‘I don’t know. There aren’t enough words. The complications —’

  Then there was a long silence. At last he opened his eyes, and saw that the Visitor had relaxed again, and was smiling kindly like a friend.

  ‘We must get on, My Lord Dean, I believe. These workmen who stayed with you to the end. Were they good men?’

  ‘Oh yes!’

  ‘Good men?’

  ‘Very good, very good indeed!’

  But papers were being shuffled on the long table. The Visitor took one and began to read from it, in an unemotional voice.

  ‘“Murderers, cutthroats, rowdies, brawlers, rapers, notorious fornicators, sodomites, atheists, or worse.”’

  ‘I — No.’

  The Visitor was looking at him over the paper.

  ‘Good men?’

  Jocelin struck his right fist into the palm of the other.

  ‘They were bold men!’

  The Visitor let out his breath in sudden exasperation. He threw the paper on to a pile.

  ‘My Lord. What’s at the bottom of all this?’

  Jocelin embraced the plain question thankfully.

  ‘It was so simple at first. On the purely human level of course, it’s a story of shame and folly — Jocelin’s Folly, they call it. I had a vision you see, a clear and explicit vision. It was so simple! It was to be my work. I was chosen for it. But then the complications began. A single green shoot at first, then clinging tendrils, then branches, then at last a riotous confusion — I didn’t know what would be required of me, even when I offered myself. Then later, he and she —’