Grimus

  So who did?

  And who or what was Grimus?

  And the Stone Rose?

  And would Virgil Jones agree to accompany him? Or would Mrs O’Toole’s illness be the deciding factor?

  He ran, panting, to the hollow by the well.

  XVI

  IT WAS THE well that finally helped Virgil Jones to decide; but before he reached that point, he had snapped almost every twig he could find. When he broke them, he threw the pieces into the well.

  This is how he persuaded himself:

  Nicholas Deggle could not have known that Flapping Eagle would meet old Virgil.

  Snap.

  Ergo, he could have sent the Axona to Calf Mountain purely as an experiment, to see if the Gate he had built would hold.

  Snap.

  Which meant he intended to follow.

  Snap.

  If Nicholas Deggle returned, life would be insupportable anyway. After Grimus, Virgil Jones must rank as his main enemy. Ever since he was expelled from the island.

  Snap.

  If he did not return, life would scarcely be better. The effect was spreading. Dolores had made experimental forays a little way up the slopes and she had felt it. Once it reached their little hovel, it would be no better than K. For Dolores, at any rate.

  Snap.

  But Nicholas Deggle must have known (Flapping Eagle must not know, not yet) what Flapping Eagle, wanting what he wanted, being what he was, would do to the island. What he would in all probability do.

  Snap.

  Still, there was little merit left in staying put.

  Snap.

  Except for Dolores, of course: she would never climb the mountain again. But then, it was possible to argue that should he agree to guide Flapping Eagle—the irrevocable choice—he would be doing so for Dolores’ sake.

  Snap.

  Then again, what if Deggle arrived once he had left? Could Dolores cope? He thought about that for a moment; then he concluded that, if he did go, he would have to assume that she could.

  Snap.

  A crucial question: would he be any use as a guide, damaged as he was by past experience of the dimensions? Again, a bleak answer: he would have to hope for the best.

  Snap.

  Another crucial question: Could he influence Flapping Eagle sufficiently to make the whole plan work? Yet again, uncertainty: it all depended on how Flapping Eagle reacted to what he encountered on the mountain.

  Snap.

  And yet, was there an alternative? What with the growth of the effect, and the increased frequency of the admittedly minor earth-tremors, the island was deteriorating, and not at all slowly.

  Snap.

  It was at this point that the well helped. He threw the broken twig into it and reflected upon the similarity between the well and the island. An idea that didn’t work. Did one abandon it, set oneself apart from it as he had done from the life of the island? Did one attempt to save it? Or did one agree to destroy it, in the same way as one would fill up a dry well…?

  Like Flapping Eagle, who had already chosen ascent instead of stasis; like Dolores O’Toole, who, last night, had chosen to speak her love rather than keep silent any more; in the same way, Virgil Jones decided upon action rather than prolonged inaction. Because it was there to be done, as the chicken had been there for Flapping Eagle to kill, as Dolores’ love had been there to be declared, and as the well was there to fill. One does, in the end, what there is to do, he told himself, and stood up, straightening his bowler hat, blinking.

  He snapped a last twig, and then Flapping Eagle arrived at a run.

  Virgil Jones took his courage in both hands and said:

  —Mr Eagle, are you still set upon climbing the mountain?

  Flapping Eagle stopped, out of breath.

  —Yes, he said, and was about to continue when Virgil said:

  —In that case, you must permit me to be your guide.

  Flapping Eagle was struck dumb by the unexpectedness of the statement.

  —Mrs O’Toole, he said at last. I don’t think she’s very well.

  Dolores O’Toole was still in the trunk when Virgil went into the hut—alone, on Flapping Eagle’s suggestion.

  She stood up with a cry of pleasure as he came in.

  —Virgil, she said. I was so afraid.

  —Now, now, Dolores, he said helplessly, feeling grossly hypocritical.

  She climbed out of the trunk and came to him, standing in front of him like a vulnerable chimpanzee.

  —Nothing will change, will it, Virgil? she repeated.

  Virgil Jones closed his eyes.

  —Dolores, he said. Please try to understand. I must go up the mountain with Mr Eagle. I must.

  —O good, she cried all at once, clapping her hands. I knew it would be all right.

  He looked at her. —Dolores, he said. Did you hear? We are going to leave in the morning. Leave.

  —Yes, she said, early in the morning. We’ll go down to the beach as usual, and I’ll carry your chair for you, clumsy and shortsighted as you are. My love.

  —O god, said Virgil Jones.

  —It’s not your fault, he said outside, to Flapping Eagle. Please ascribe no blame to yourself. It is my responsibility. Mea culpa.

  —You’ll stay with her, of course, said Flapping Eagle.

  —No, said Mr Jones. If acceptable to you, we leave tomorrow morning.

  Flapping Eagle had to ask: —Why, Mr Jones? Why choose me?

  Mr Jones smiled crookedly. —My dear fellow, he said, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Do you know Latin?

  —No, said Flapping Eagle. Or just a few words.

  —Timere Dañaos et dona ferentes, said Mr Jones. Do you follow me?

  —No, said Flapping Eagle.

  —Perhaps it’s just as well, said Virgil Jones, if we are to be friends.

  XVII

  TO KEEP DOLORES calm, Flapping Eagle had dinner alone that night, by the well; Virgil Jones brought it out to him. He was puzzled; there was a whole set of facts that didn’t add up: some awful history of which he was unaware, and which had brought Mr Jones to his surprising decision. He tried to work it out and failed; so he tried to go to sleep instead, and eventually succeeded.

  Meanwhile, Virgil Jones was making a despairing attempt to break through the barrier in Dolores’ mind.

  —You remember Nicholas Deggle, he said.

  —O yes, said Dolores, quite normally. I never took to him. Good riddance, I thought, when he disappeared.

  —He didn’t disappear, Dolores. He was thrown out. So listen: if he should arrive, don’t mention you knew me. All right?

  —Very well, darling, she said equably, but you’re being foolish. Why, he’ll see you, for heaven’s sake.

  —Dolores, exclaimed Virgil Jones, I’m going away!

  —I love you too, said Mrs O’Toole.

  Virgil shook his head in a gesture of impotence.

  —Listen, Dolores, he tried again. Nicholas Deggle has a grudge against me. So don’t let him know I loved you… love you. For your own sake.

  —Darling, said Mrs O’Toole, I want to tell the whole world about our love. I want to shout it out all over the island. I want…

  —Dolores, said Virgil Jones. Stop. Stop.

  —I’m so glad you’re staying, she said. And I’m proud of you, too.

  —Proud, echoed Mr Jones.

  —O yes, she said. For chasing away that spectre from Grimus. That was well done. Now nothing can happen.

  —No, said Mr Jones, admitting defeat. Nothing.

  That night, Virgil Jones dreamt of Liv. Tall, beautiful, deadly Liv, who had been the breaking of him so long ago. She was the centre of the whirlpool and he was falling towards her as her mouth opened in a smile of welcome and opened further and wider and opened and opened and he fell towards her and the water rushed up over his head and he broke, like a twig.

  Flapping Eagle woke several times during the night, since the bare ground was both hard
and lumpy. There was an itching on his chest. He scratched at it sleepily, and thought as he drifted off again: That damn scar.

  That damn scar played him up sometimes.

  Tiusday morning again. Misty.

  Virgil Jones was shaken gently awake. He found Mrs O’Toole smiling at him, saying: —Time to get up, my love.

  He got up. Methodically, he took an old bag from its peg on the wall, filling it with fruit and vegetables.

  —Why ever do you need all that for the beach, dear? asked Dolores. He didn’t reply.

  —I’ll need your belt now, my love, she said, attempting a dulcet tone. He dressed in silence: the black suit, the bowler hat.

  —Dolores, he said, I need the belt myself today.

  —O, she pouted. Well, if you’re going to be like that, I’ll manage without it.

  She hoisted the chair on to her hump. —Come on, she cooed. Time to be off.

  —I’m not coming with you, he said.

  —All right, dear, she said; you come on behind as usual. I’ll see you down there.

  —Goodbye, Dolores, he said.

  She hobbled out of the hut with the rocking-chair on her back.

  He collected Flapping Eagle from the wellside. The Axona had tied a cloth around his forehead and stuck a feather in at the back.

  —Ceremonial dress, he joked; Virgil Jones didn’t smile.

  —Let’s go, he said.

  The rocking-chair sat upon the beach, with its back to the sea. Beside it, on the greysilver sands, Dolores O’Toole sat and sang her songs of mourning and requition.

  —O, Virgil, she said. I’m so, so happy.

  Waiting in the forests on the slopes of Calf Mountain, silent, invisible, as the fat, stumbling man and his tallish feathered companion, feather bobbing beside bowler, made their progress up the overgrown paths, watching over them and waiting, was a Gorf.

  XVIII

  THE GORFIC PLANET is sometimes called Thera. It winds its way around the star Nus in the Yawy Klim galaxy of the Gorfic Nirveesu. This area is the major component of the zone sometimes termed the Gorfic Endimions. The Gorfic obsession with anagram-making ranges from simple rearrangement of word-forms to the exalted level of the Divine Game of Order. The Game extends far beyond mere letter-puzzling; the vast mental powers of the Gorfs make it possible for them anagrammatically to alter their very environment and indeed their own physical make-up—in the latter case within the severe limits imposed by their somewhat grotesque given material. The Rules of the Game are known as Anagrammar; and to hold the title of Magister Anagrammari is the highest desire of any living Gorf.

  “Living” is a troublesome term, for Gorfs are not life-forms as we know them. They need no food, no water, no atmosphere, and possess only one intangible sensory tool which serves for sight, sound, touch, taste, smell and quite a lot besides: a sort of aura or emanation surrounding their huge, hard, useless bodies.

  To be explicit: the Gorfs look like nothing so much as enormous sightless frogs, with one important peculiarity. They are made entirely out of rock.

  Their origins are lost in mystery; some radiation, perhaps, blasting their now-barren planet, formed the rock into these masterpieces of intelligence and at the same time trapped them in the tragic irony of near-immobility and total isolation. For this is the tragedy of the Gorfs: not only Thera itself, but the entire Endimions, is totally devoid of any other life-form. No animals bound, no plants wave, nor is there any breeze to wave them.

  This irony prevented the Gorfs, for several millennia, from being able to determine how advanced a culture they actually were, having no standards of measurement. The result was a certain philosophical paranoia. The supreme Master of the Game, Dota himself, asked in the celebrated Questions of Dota: And are we actually to be the least intelligent race in our Endimions?—a philosophy of despair: he who is unique is both largest and smallest. Our own Gorf, the one now eagerly overseeing the progress of Flapping Eagle and Mr Virgil Jones, took especial pride in his Ordering of this last and most famous of the Questions. He had altered it to make quite a different question, thus: Determine how catalytic an elite is; use our talent and learning-lobe. This is a perfect use of Anagrammar; for not only does it contain all the letters of the Chiefest Question and only those letters, but moreover, it enriches the Question itself, adding to it the concept of elitism and its desirability, the concept of catalysis and its origins, and instructions about how the question is to be answered. “Talent” to the Gorfs means only one thing: skill at Ordering. Thus the very skill that caused the Chiefest Question to be asked must be used in its solution, with the aid of the “Learning-lobe”, that inexhaustible memory-vault locked within each Gorf, giving the species absolute recall of anything that has ever befallen any Gorf.

  The title of Magister Anagrammari, and the modest acclaim that resulted, (the Gorfs not being an excitable race) now came the way of our Gorf, and may fairly be said to have turned his head (though properly speaking, he had none).

  It should be pointed out that the Gorfs had developed no orthodox technology; the Divine Game sufficed them for science and art. Their philosophy, as may be observed from the above example, preferred questions to answers; even though our Gorfs Ordering of Dota’s Question hinted at the source of an answer, he was well aware that further Orderings might make its examination impossible. However, our Gorf, filled with his triumph, now moved towards heresy. He developed a minor branch of the Divine Game to such a point that it threatened the Game itself. It also gave the Gorfs the chance, at last, of measuring the extent of their brilliance or mediocrity against other civilizations.

  The minor branch was called Conceptualism. It is perhaps best defined in one of the rare Statements of Dota: “I think, therefore it is” It was our Gorf who first saw the tremendous implications of this statement. Dota had intended it to mean simply that nothing could exist without the presence of a cognitive intellect to perceive its existence; our Gorf reversed this to postulate that anything of which such an intellect could conceive must therefore exist. He followed this by conceiving the possibility of other Endimions: other Endimions containing accessible life-forms. The Gorfs were not sure whether to cheer or throw brickbats. Suddenly they felt exposed. The comfortable, if melancholy, period of isolation was being brought to a rapid close…

  To pacify the fears of his fellow-beings, our Gorf then conceptualized an Object. An Object would exist in every single conceivable Endimions, and it was only through contact with Objects that movement between the Endimions would be possible. This would give the Gorfs a measure of control over their new Idea.

  It was through such an Object that our Gorf came into contact with Grimus. And Calf Island. In order to observe it without being himself involved, he Ordered his own vile body in such a way as to make him invisible. And watched.

  As he watched over the stumbling ascent of Mr Jones and Flapping Eagle, he felt a mounting excitement. His aura positively quivered with pleasure. This was why: ever since he arrived at Calf Island he had sensed a missing link, an absence of some vital ingredient that would stabilize the structure of the place. Any Gorf would have spotted that: it was one of the elementary stages of the Divine Game to be sure of one’s components. This sure-ness became, in the hands of a Master, a kind of instinct; so that the Gorf knew, when he saw Flapping Eagle, that this man was the link. That this journey, if completed, would also complete the Ordering of the island and the mountain. He longed to know what that Order would be like.

  If our Gorf had a fault, it was that he was a meddler. Long years of Ordering had given him a consuming passion for it. So far, on Calf Island, he had resisted the temptation; but now, now that the great, final events for which the island had (unconsciously) been waiting were in train, he found a reason for meddling.

  He argued:

  Only if you were Grimus would you be fully conscious of what was happening on Calf Island.

  Unless, that is, you were a Gorf.

  Now, since consciou
sness is a dynamic condition (that is, you have to choose whether to act or not to act upon your knowledge, and even a decision to remain inactive is an action) it becomes the privilege, not to say duty, of conscious beings to move, and possibly alter the flow of their times.

  Thus it was perfectly proper for a Gorf on Calf Island, knowing what he knew, being what he was, to act as he saw fit.

  The Gorf nodded gleefully to himself. He was almost hoping for one especial treat before the Final Ordering: almost hoping that Flapping Eagle would fall under the terrifying and often fatal spell of Endimions-Fever.

  Of course, he told himself, he would have to be very careful.

  XIX

  THICK FOREST, DARK as the tomb. Behind them the broken, isolated mind of Dolores O’Toole, abandoned by love at the very moment at which she had allowed it to possess her; ahead of them, K and whatever it held. Between the two, the inhospitable slopes and Forest of Calf. All that spurred Flapping Eagle on was the phantasm of Bird-Dog in his mind’s eye, walking away from him hand-in-hand with the faceless Mr Sispy. He wished he knew what spurred Virgil Jones.

  A faint whine in the corners of his head. He had the impression it was growing louder as they climbed the mountain tracks. Virgil Jones gave no sign of hearing it; he wore the lost air of a man trying to recall old habits. —Yes, yes, he would mutter to himself every so often and plunge heavily through this or that thicket. Drat, he would swear on occasion and bury his head in his hands, lost in memories or recriminations—and then he would jerk up again, ploughing forward like a wounded buffalo. Flapping Eagle followed; and so they forged their erratic way through the undergrowth and up the Mountain.

  The whine was still there; were his ears playing tricks? Did it seem to be getting louder only because he was thinking about it? He struck the side of his head with the flat of his hand, in exasperation. For an instant, he had the impression that the forest was a solid impenetrable mass, surrounding, enclosing. He blinked, and it passed; there was the faint track again.