by C. S. Lewis
banners, are means used on earth to make a faint symbol of his quality. It was like a long sunlit wave, creamy-crested and arched with emerald, that comes on nine feet tall, with roaring and with terror and unquenchable laughter. It was like the first beginning of music in the halls of some King so high and at some festival so solemn that a tremor akin to fear runs through young hearts when they hear it. For this was great Glund-Oyarsa, King of Kings, through whom the joy of creation principally blows across these fields of Arbol, known to men in old times as Jove and under that name, by fatal but not inexplicable misprision, confused with his Maker–so little did they dream by how many degrees the stair even of created being rises above him.
At his coming there was holiday in the Blue Room. The two mortals, momentarily caught up into the Gloria which those five excellent Natures perpetually sing, forgot for a time the lower and more immediate purpose of their meeting. Then they proceeded to operation. Merlin received the power into him.
He looked different next day. Partly because his beard had been shaved; but also, because he was no longer his own man. No one doubted that his final severance from the body was near. Later in the day MacPhee drove him off and dropped him in the neighbourhood of Belbury.
Mark had fallen into a doze in the tramp’s bedroom that day, when he was startled, and driven suddenly to collect himself, by the arrival of visitors. Frost came in first and held the door open. Two others followed. One was the Deputy Director; the other was a man whom Mark had not seen before.
This person was dressed in a rusty cassock and carried in his hand a wide-brimmed black hat such as priests wear in many parts of the continent. He was a very big man and the cassock perhaps made him look bigger. He was clean shaven, revealing a large face with heavy and complicated folds in it, and he walked with his head a little bowed. Mark decided that he was a simple soul, probably an obscure member of some religious order who happened to be an authority on some even more obscure language. And it was to Mark rather odious to see him standing between those two birds of prey–Wither, effusive and flattering on his right and Frost, on his left, stiff as a ramrod, waiting with scientific attention but also, as Mark could now see, with a certain cold dislike, for the result of the new experiment.
Wither talked to the stranger for some moments in a language which Mark could not follow but which he recognised as Latin. ‘A priest, obviously,’ thought Mark. ‘But I wonder where from? Wither knows most of the ordinary languages. Would the old chap be a Greek? Doesn’t look like a Levantine. More probably a Russian.’ But at this point Mark’s attention was diverted. The tramp, who had closed his eyes when he heard the door handle turning had suddenly opened them, seen the stranger, and then shut them tighter than before. After this his behaviour was peculiar. He began emitting a series of very exaggerated snores and turned his back to the company. The stranger took a step nearer to the bed and spoke two syllables in a low voice. For a second or two the tramp lay as he was but seemed to be afflicted with a shivering fit; then, slowly but with continuous movement, as when the bows of a ship come round in obedience to the rudder, he rolled round and lay staring up into the other’s face. His mouth and his eyes were both opened very wide. From certain jerkings of his head and hands and from certain ghastly attempts to smile, Mark concluded that he was trying to say something, probably of a deprecatory and insinuating kind. What next followed took his breath away. The stranger spoke again; and then, with much facial contortion, mixed with coughs and stammers and spluttering and expectoration, there came out of the tramp’s mouth, in a high unnatural voice, syllables, words, a whole sentence, in some language that was neither Latin nor English. All this time the stranger kept his eyes fixed on those of the tramp.
The stranger spoke again. This time the tramp replied at much greater length and seemed to manage the unknown language a little more easily, though his voice remained quite unlike that in which Mark had heard him talking for the last few days. At the end of his speech he sat up in bed and pointed to where Wither and Frost were standing. Then the stranger appeared to ask him a question. The tramp spoke for the third time.
At this reply the stranger started back, crossed himself several times, and exhibited every sign of terror. He turned and spoke rapidly in Latin to the other two. Something happened to their faces when he spoke. They looked like dogs who have just picked up a scent. Then, with a loud exclamation the stranger caught up his skirts and made a bolt for the door. But the scientists were too quick for him. For a few minutes all three were wrangling there, Frost’s teeth bared like an animal’s, and the loose mask of Wither’s face wearing, for once, a quite unambiguous expression. The old priest was being threatened. Mark found that he himself had taken a step forward. But before he could make up his mind how to act, the stranger, shaking his head and holding out his hands, had come timidly back to the bedside. It was an odd thing that the tramp who had relaxed during the struggle at the door should suddenly stiffen again and fix his eyes on this frightened old man as if he were awaiting orders.
More words in the unknown language followed. The tramp once more pointed at Wither and Frost. The stranger turned and spoke to them in Latin, apparently translating. Wither and Frost looked at one another as if each waited for his fellow to act. What followed was pure lunacy. With infinite caution, wheezing and creaking, down went the whole shaky senility of the Deputy Director, down onto its knees; and half a second later, with a jerky, metallic movement, Frost got down beside him. When he was down, he suddenly looked over his shoulder to where Mark was standing. The flash of pure hatred in his face, but hatred, as it were, crystallised so that it was no longer a passion and had no heat in it, was like touching metal in the Arctic where metal burns. ‘Kneel,’ he bleated, and instantly turned his head. Mark never could remember afterwards whether he simply forgot to obey this order or whether his real rebellion dated from that moment.
The tramp spoke again, always with his eyes fixed on those of the man in the cassock. And again the latter translated, and then stood aside. Wither and Frost began going forward on their knees till they reached the bedside. The tramp’s hairy, dirty hand with its bitten nails was thrust out to them. They kissed it. Then it seemed that some further order was given them. They rose and Mark perceived that Wither was gently expostulating in Latin against this order. He kept on indicating Frost. The words venia tua * (each time emended to venia vestra) recurred so often that Mark could pick them out. But apparently the expostulation was unsuccessful: a few moments later Frost and Wither had both left the room.
As the door shut, the tramp collapsed like a deflated balloon. He rolled himself to and fro on the bed muttering,
‘Gor’ blimey. Couldn’t have believed it. It’s a knockout. A fair knock-out.’ But Mark had little leisure to attend to this. He found that the stranger was addressing him and though he could not understand the words, he looked up. Instantly, he wished to look away again and found that he could not. He might have claimed with some reason that he was by now an expert in the endurance of alarming faces. But that did not alter the fact that when he looked on this he felt himself afraid. Almost before he had time to realise this he felt himself drowsy. A moment later he fell into his chair and slept.
‘Well?’ said Frost as soon as they found themselves outside the door.
‘It is…er…profoundly perplexing,’ said the Deputy Director.
They walked down the passage conversing in low tones as they went.
‘It certainly looked–I say looked,’ continued Frost, ‘as if the man in the bed were hypnotised and the Basque priest were in charge of the situation.’
‘Oh, surely, my dear friend, that would be a most disquieting hypothesis.’
‘Excuse me. I have made no hypothesis. I am describing how it looked.’
‘And how, on your hypothesis–forgive me, but that is what it is–would a Basque priest come to invent the story that our guest was Merlinus Ambrosius?’
‘That is the point. If th
e man in the bed is not Merlinus then someone else, and someone quite outside our calculations, namely the priest, knows our whole plan of campaign.’
‘And that, my dear friend, is why the retention of both these persons and a certain extreme delicacy in our attitude to both is required–at least, until we have some further light.’
‘They must, of course, be detained.’
‘I should hardly say detained. It has implications…I do not venture to express any doubt at present as to the identity of our distinguished guest. There is no question of detention. On the contrary, the most cordial welcome, the most meticulous courtesy…’
‘Do I understand that you had always pictured Merlinus entering the Institute as a Dictator rather than a colleague?’
‘As to that,’ said Wither, ‘my conception of the personal, or even official, relations between us had always been elastic and ready for all necessary adaptations. It would be a very real grief to me if I thought you were allowing any misplaced sense of your own dignity…ah, in short, provided he is Merlinus…you understand me?’
‘Where are you taking us at the moment?’
‘To my apartments. If you remember, the request was that we should provide our guest with some clothes.’
‘There was no request. We were ordered.’
To this the Deputy Director made no reply. When both men were in his bedroom and the door was shut, Frost said:
‘I am not satisfied. You do not seem to realise the dangers of the situation. We must take into account the possibility that the man is not Merlinus. And if he is not Merlinus, then the priest knows things he ought not to know. To allow an imposter and a spy to remain at large in the Institute is out of the question. We must find out at once where that priest gets his knowledge from. And where did you get the priest from?’
‘I think that is the kind of shirt which would be most suitable,’ said Wither laying it on the bed. ‘The suits are in here. The…ah…clerical personage said he had come in answer to our advertisement. I wish to do full justice to the point of view you have expressed, my dear Frost. On the other hand, to reject the real Merlinus…to alienate a power which is an integral factor in our plan…
would be at least equally dangerous. It is not even certain that the priest would in any event be an enemy. He may have made independent contact with the Macrobes. He may be a potential ally.’
‘Did you think he looked like it? His priesthood is against him.’
‘All that we now want,’ said Wither, ‘is a collar and tie. Forgive me for saying that I have never been able to share your root and branch attitude to religion. I am not speaking of dogmatic Christianity in its primitive form. But within religious circles–ecclesiastical circles–types of spirituality of very real value do from time to time arise. When they do, they sometimes reveal great energy. Father Doyle, though not very talented, is one of our soundest colleagues; and Mr Straik has in him the germs of that total allegiance (objectivity is, I believe, the term you prefer) which is so rare. It doesn’t do to be in any way narrow.’
‘What do you actually propose to do?’
‘We will, of course, consult the Head at once. I use that term, you understand, purely for convenience.’
‘But how can you? Have you forgotten that this is the night of the inaugural banquet, and that Jules is coming down? He may be here in an hour. You will be dancing attendance on him till midnight.’
For a moment Wither’s face remained still, the mouth wide open. He had indeed forgotten that the puppet Director, the dupe of the Institute by whom it duped the public, was coming that night. But the realisation that he had forgotten troubled him more than it would have troubled another. It was like the first cold breath of winter–the first little hint of a crack in that great secondary self or mental machine which he had built up to carry on the business of living while he, the real Wither, floated far away on the indeterminate frontiers of ghosthood.
‘God bless my soul!’ he said.
‘You have therefore to consider at once,’ said Frost, ‘what to do with these two men this very evening. It is out of the question that they should attend the banquet. It would be madness to leave them to their own devices.’
‘Which reminds me that we have already left them alone–and with Studdock too–for over ten minutes. We must go back with the clothes at once.’
‘And without a plan?’ inquired Frost, though following Wither out of the room as he said it.
‘We must be guided by circumstances,’ said Wither.
They were greeted on their return by a babble of imploring Latin from the man in the cassock. ‘Let me go,’ he said, ‘I intreat you do not, for your mothers’ sakes, do not do violence to a poor harmless old man. I will tell nothing–God forgive me– but I cannot stay here. This man who says he is Merlinus come back from the dead–he is a diabolist, a worker of infernal miracles. Look! Look what he did to the poor young man the moment you had left the room.’ He pointed to where Mark lay unconscious in his chair. ‘He did it with his eye, only by looking at him. The evil eye, the evil eye.’
‘Silence!’ said Frost in the same language, ‘and listen. If you do what you are told, no harm will come to you. If you do not, you will be destroyed. I think that if you are troublesome you may lose your soul as well as your life, for you do not sound likely to be a martyr.’
The man whimpered, covering his face with his hands. Suddenly, not as if he wished to but as if he were a machine that had been worked, Frost kicked him. ‘Get on,’ he said. ‘Tell him we have brought such clothes as men wear now.’ The man did not stagger when he was kicked.
The end of it was that the tramp was washed and dressed. When this had been done, the man in the cassock said, ‘He is saying that he must now be taken for a journey through all your house and shown the secrets.’ ‘Tell him,’ said Wither, ‘that it will be a very great pleasure and privilege–’ But here the tramp spoke again. ‘He says,’ translated the big man, ‘first that he must see the Head and the beasts and the criminals who are being tormented. Secondly, that he will go with one of you alone. With you, Sir,’ and here he turned to Wither.
‘I will allow no such arrangement,’ said Frost in English.
‘My dear Frost,’ said Wither, ‘this is hardly the moment…and one of us must be free to meet Jules.’
The tramp had spoken again. ‘Forgive me,’ said the man in the cassock, ‘I must follow what he says. The words are not mine. He forbids you to talk in his presence in a tongue which he cannot, even through me, understand. And he says it is an old habit of his to be obeyed. He is asking now whether you wish to have him for a friend or an enemy.’
Frost took a pace nearer to the pseudo-Merlin so that his shoulder touched the rusty cassock of the real one. Wither thought that Frost had intended to say something but had grown afraid. In reality, Frost found it impossible to remember any words. Perhaps it was due to the rapid shifts from Latin to English which had been going on. He could not speak. Nothing but nonsense syllables would occur to his mind. He had long known that his continued intercourse with the beings he called Macrobes might have effects on his psychology which he could not predict. In a dim sort of way, the possibility of complete destruction was never out of his thoughts. He had schooled himself not to attend to it. Now, it seemed to be descending on him. He reminded himself that fear was only a chemical phenomenon. For the moment, clearly, he must step out of the struggle, come to himself, and make a new start later in the evening. For, of course, this could not be final. At the very worst it could only be the first hint of the end. Probably he had years of work before him. He would outlast Wither. He would kill the priest. Even Merlin, if it was Merlin, might not stand better with the Macrobes than himself. He stood aside, and the tramp, accompanied by the real Merlin and the Deputy Director, left the room.
Frost had been right in thinking that the aphasia would be only temporary. As soon as they were alone he found no difficulty in saying, as he shook Mark by the sho
ulder, ‘Get up. What do you mean by sleeping here? Come with me to the Objective Room.’
Before proceeding to their tour of inspection Merlin demanded robes for the tramp, and Wither finally dressed him as a Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Edgestow. Thus arrayed, walking with his eyes half shut, and as delicately as if he were treading on eggs, the bewildered tinker was led upstairs and downstairs and through the zoo and into the cells. Every now and then his face underwent a kind of spasm as if he were trying to say something; but he never succeeded in producing any words except when the real Merlin asked him a question and fixed him with his eye. Of course, all this was not to the tramp what it would have been to anyone who made an educated and wealthy man’s demands upon the universe. It was, no doubt, a ‘rum do’–the rummest do that had ever befallen him. The mere sensation of being clean all over would have made it that even apart from the crimson robe and the fact that his own mouth kept on uttering sounds he did not understand and without his own consent. But it was not by any means the first inexplicable thing that had been done to him.
Meanwhile, in the Objective Room, something like a crisis had developed between Mark and Professor Frost. As soon as they arrived there Mark saw that the table had been drawn back. On the floor lay a large crucifix, almost life size, a work of art in the Spanish tradition, ghastly and realistic. ‘We have half an hour to pursue our exercises,’ said Frost looking at his watch. Then he instructed Mark to trample on it and insult it in other ways.
Now whereas Jane had abandoned Christianity in early childhood, along with her belief in fairies and Santa Claus, Mark had never believed in it at all. At this moment, therefore, it crossed his mind for the very first time that there might conceivably be something in it. Frost who was watching him carefully knew perfectly well that this might be the result of the present experiment. He knew it for the very good reason that his own training by the Macrobes had, at one point, suggested the same odd idea to himself. But he had no choice. Whether he wished it or not this sort of thing was part of the initiation.
‘But, look here,’ said Mark.
‘What is it?’ said Frost. ‘Pray be quick. We have only a limited time at our disposal.’
‘This,’ said Mark, pointing with an undefined reluctance to the horrible white figure on the cross. ‘This is all surely a pure superstition.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, if so, what is there objective about stamping on the face? Isn’t it just as subjective to spit on a thing like this as to worship it? I mean–damn it all–if it’s only a bit of wood, why do anything about it?’
‘That is superficial. If you had been brought up in a non-Christian society, you would not be asked to do this. Of course, it is a superstition; but it is that particular superstition which has pressed upon our society for a great many centuries. It can be experimentally shown that it still forms a dominant system in the subconscious of many individuals whose conscious thought appears to be wholly liberated. An explicit action in the reverse direction is therefore a necessary step towards complete objectivity. It is not a question for a priori discussion. We find it in practice that it cannot be dispensed with.’
Mark himself was surprised at the emotions he was undergoing. He did not regard the image with anything at all like a religious feeling. Most emphatically it did not belong to that idea of the Straight or Normal or Wholesome which had, for the last few days, been his support against what he now knew of the innermost circle at Belbury. The horrible vigour of its realism was, indeed, in its own way as remote from that Idea as anything else in the room. That was one source of his reluctance. To insult even a carved image of such agony seemed an abominable act. But it was not the only source. With the introduction of this Christian symbol the whole situation had somehow altered. The thing was becoming incalculable. His simple antithesis of the Normal and the Diseased had obviously failed to take something into account. Why was the crucifix there? Why were more than half the poison-pictures religious? He had the sense of new parties to the conflict–potential allies and enemies which he had not suspected before. ‘If I take a step in any direction,’ he thought, ‘I may step over a precipice.’ A donkey-like determination to plant hoofs and stay still at all costs arose in his mind.
‘Pray make haste,’ said Frost.
The quiet urgency of the voice, and the fact that he had so often obeyed it before, almost conquered him. He was on the verge of obeying, and getting the whole silly business over, when the defencelessness of the figure deterred him. The feeling was a very illogical one. Not because its hands were nailed and helpless, but because they were only