The new singer held up his hand. ‘Wait!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t forget your God gave you freedom – the freedom to come or to go, to turn good into bad and bad into good. But have you taken your freedom?’
Again the air was filled with furious muttering. More fierce cries and curses went up into the sky. ‘There must be silence!’ the young leading singer reminded them, ‘or else the God will not hear that He is loved and forgiven!’
‘Never! How we have suffered!’ came shouts from every side. ‘Where is this love? He had no love. Now we have none ourselves!’
The great trees whistled and creaked in accord. Hissing came through the dripping leaves. At least a quarter of the choir left immediately and ran back as fast as they could down the way they had come. The new singer watched them go sympathetically, while the rest hesitated, in two minds whether to follow or to stay. Many were still pondering on this unknown Love of God.
‘What kind of love is this?’ they demanded, ‘this love that allows terror and torture to innocent men and beasts?’ There had been loving parents in some lucky lives, of course: a few loving friends, a loving teacher or two, loving cats and dogs. A few admitted that, not clearly knowing what love meant, they had recklessly given it to all sorts of undeserving persons, and been let down, dropped, deserted, and swiftly passed over or replaced. So did this God-love have infinite meanings then – all different from anything known on earth? If so, what was the use of talking about it?
‘Time to talk or sing if we ever get to heaven!’ came a shout. ‘Right now, let’s keep our mouths shut!’
There was complete silence, so much so that the old choirmaster came back to see what had happened. ‘Are you working them up about something?’ he asked the new member. ‘If so I’ll have to ask you to leave at once. I’ve put a life’s work into training them, and I can’t afford to hear it all go for nothing. What’s more, I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind about the love-singing and even the love-talk. I’m into Justice now. Justice is the greatest thing on earth!’
‘But will you let me stay and sing with your choir a little longer?’ the young man asked.
‘That’s fair enough, of course. And I will stand and listen as hard as I can,’ said Sam, stepping from the fringe of the forest into the sunlight.
The sound he heard was like light itself – sometimes flashing up through the trees and descending again into blackness through thick leaves, and once more climbing up a scale of brilliance till it reached a sunburst of sound. Bells, flutes and cymbals like those that herald the appearance of a new king were heard, and then a second descent into the dark evening shadow moving swiftly along the ground.
‘Have they fallen on their knees to pray and praise then?’ Sam asked incredulously, peering at the men and women on the ground.
‘Not yet,’ said the new singer. ‘How on earth could they sing with tongues parched dry with thirst, with stomachs blown tight as drums with hunger?’
‘But have they sung up forgiveness to God yet?’ the old man asked.
‘No, no,’ the other answered again. ‘He will not be forgiven for a long, long time. Only when the desert is green as an orchard, when the dying children get their milk and lose the look of wizened age. Only then.’
The old choirmaster stepped forward defiantly. ‘Of course the singing sounded good,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure what you’re trying to do. Are you trying to be different from all other singers?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ the other conceded.
‘Then what exactly are you aiming at?’ the old choirmaster went on. He had known all along that this particular singer was proud, if not actually arrogant. He had met all types in his profession – the cringing and the confident, loud-voiced braggarts and soft-voiced hypocrites, bullying voices and begging ones. Yet it was difficult to know where this particular voice fitted in. All he could vouch for was that it was a totally new and beautiful one. And so powerful it was that the man was automatically taken as leader.
The young man was silent for a while before answering Sam’s question. ‘You ask what I’m aiming at. I am helping people to forgive the Almighty One for all the terrible things He has allowed on earth – the unbelievable wretchedness and frightful pain. He has forgiven them for many things. Now they can forgive Him. He can never be human. They can never be gods, but at least they can show they are human and be proud of it.’
‘Don’t try to change my singers,’ said the old choirmaster. ‘It has taken me long enough to prevent the bending knee and that horrible, begging note.’
‘There’ll be none of that if I have anything to do with it,’ the new member assured him. ‘They must go on shouting and cursing for as long as they wish. First the God must be shown fearlessly all they have endured. Then He might be forgiven. You will let me stay a short time with your singers, then?’
Again the old choirmaster could only agree. He waited, rather jealously, to hear what other sound this newcomer would bring from his choir. The old man believed that he had heard all sounds produced by animal and human throat. But this was something else. Fearful sounds and words evoking frightful images; young men, women and children of every race sliced to the bone by guns, beheaded by bombs; the frightened breath of children waiting for doors to open in the night; the roar of the wounded lion, the scream of the trapped hare, the terrified bellow of beasts with rolling eyes, slung up for slaughter; the rumbling of earthquakes spurting from unknown depths. These were not sounds only from throat or ground. These were the sounds of Hell on earth.
The young leader lifted up his arms, urging the choir to louder and louder shouts of outrage. Then he raised his hand for silence. ‘That was excellent!’ he called. ‘You have shown a magnificent fury for the things allowed by God. Now you can show forgiveness to match!’
Again the air was filled with furious mutterings and cries of complaint.
‘You see, they are not stupid,’ the old choirmaster explained. ‘Most of the things we heard are the fault of Man. They have nothing to do with God. Anyway, He is above thanks or blame. To think anything else would be blasphemy.’
Old Sam had once hoped to be a popular preacher in a large city church with a decent stipend and a gathering of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who would listen to him with unquestioning respect. How he longed, after all these years in the wilderness, to arrive at a cool, Christian building where there was no cursing, no obscenity, no endless questions and no striving on his part to offer quickfire explanations for every single horror that had ever happened upon earth!
He sidetracked a good deal of the argument nowadays. Yet he was still left with the humiliating desire to keep on with his own nagging questions, whether directed to an angel or devil in his own mind or even to some interloper who might happen, in passing, to step out of a dark wood. He turned again to the young singer for reassurance. ‘It is the fault of human beings, isn’t it?’ he asked anxiously. ‘The old barbaric gods would have allowed these horrors, of course, but not the great, good God of Love we have prayed and sung to day after day, year in year out.’
‘I can promise great changes will come one day,’ the younger man replied.
‘One day, one year, one eternity,’ added the old choirmaster, shaking his head dolefully.
The young man smiled. He had always foreseen more doubt than hope. One had to wait aeons and aeons of time for hope. Suddenly he left the path. He entered the forest again. Black darkness hid him.
‘Is that young man gone for good?’ asked one of the singers. ‘I liked him. His standards were far too high, of course. He will never be popular.’
‘He may well come again,’ the choirmaster replied. ‘He was simply here to see the damage and the pain for himself.’
‘But who brought it on us?’ the singer asked again.
‘No doubt we brought it on ourselves,’ said the old man.
‘That is an easy answer,’ said the other.
‘Yes, I believe you’re right,’ the choirmas
ter agreed. ‘It would take some superhuman power to bring all the catastrophe that has occurred on earth.’
‘So that is the only answer you can find?’
‘Well, I am only human,’ said the old man. ‘And I am tired. What more can I say? For the whole of my life I have been dumbfounded.’
Hearing this, the rest of the choir circled protectively around him. They were no longer angry. Doubt was more lovable than an iron faith, they decided. This looser circle they had formed let in both light and shadow. People felt free to break away from it and to come back again, to stand still, argue or be silent, to sing in tune or discord, to listen or to stop their ears. It was no sacred circle. Those who left were not followed or persuaded by love, the binding ties of friendship or the community spirit – to come back.
Over the centuries came changing groups of singers with their choirmasters. Rules changed. Tunes changed. Hopes rose and fell. Only music itself remained and the great forest of ancient trees. But every choirmaster taught his group not only how to sing, but to listen intently and to count the beat. Sometimes the songs were strident with bitterness, sometimes mellow with hope. Often for endless time there was no singing at all in the forest. But always an ardent listening for the return of a young leader hacking down branches to let in light – and for the terrible and confident crackle of His approaching footsteps over aeon upon aeon of fallen twigs.
Through the Forest
HE LIVED ON the outskirts of a huge, ancient forest, but as he grew older Martin began to be disenchanted with his walks there. That was the difficulty with fairy tales and why, he supposed, some parents and teachers advocated more down-to-earth reading for children. The forest tales had told of entering the great woods and remaining for years or perhaps for ever. After walking for ten miles or so an ugly but exceedingly wise dwarf would disclose the secret and the strangeness of one’s birth and upbringing. Some years later and many miles further on one would meet the beautiful and ideal companion for life. Great happiness began and that was the end of it.
But there was something missing in the forest these days and something menacing. It was not in the fear of meeting wild animals. Most of the animals, wild or tame, had been shot. It was not in fear of darkness, because the gaps between the trees had become wider and wider in recent months and soon there was so much daylight to be seen that there was no possibility of losing oneself.
The fairy stories quickly faded in the light of day. In fact, as time went on, they began to seem foolish. Where were the lonely cottages where some old woman would emerge with bowls of soup for the cold and hungry? Where were the kindly old woodchoppers who pointed the way home to lost travellers? Often he felt a spurt of anger towards his parents who had brought him up on such tales when all the time they had known the true, hard facts and had hidden them from him.
However, one day – not far from the path – he did come on a cottage and, glancing through the window, saw a room full of people. Three or four girls caught sight of him and came out, led by a young woman in clean, blue dungarees. Her chest was firmly flattened by a clipboard from which hung a Biro on a chain. She looked him over through horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Did you bring anything to eat?’ she asked. Martin looked puzzled. ‘Anything to eat?’ she repeated briskly. ‘If you’re joining us even for a day I’m afraid you have to bring your own food. We’ll probably be here till evening.’ She held out her board for him to inspect. ‘As you know, we’re collecting names,’ she said, pointing to three columns already filled. ‘We’re fairly near the road here, so we get people coming from the city and also coming through the forest from the other side. We want to be completely unbiased ourselves, of course, though obviously we do know where we stand.’ To Martin she looked exceedingly tough and biased, but as yet he didn’t know on what side. He was intrigued. For a moment the old fairy tales came back – the good spells and the bad. Name collecting, name speaking could be a matter of witchcraft just as surely as the taking of photos, the painting of portraits could be to primitive tribes. Certainly this brisk young woman was not his idea of a witch, but his parents had misled him on so many things. They could have misled him on this one too.
The young woman held the board steady. ‘If you could simply sign your name here,’ she said, pointing to a clear space and handing him the pen on the chain. ‘Just your full name and address, your age and phone number too, if you don’t mind; and there’s a space for anything else you might wish to say about yourself – married, single, divorced. Any brothers or sisters? Illnesses in the family. Your job, special interests, hobbies and that kind of thing. The name of your bank and your account number would be helpful. Are your parents still alive? Did you ask what we’re here for?’ She raised her head momentarily. ‘We are speaking for the right of people to have houses built where they please, the right to have more and more freedom to spread, to build schools, churches, shops and offices with garages and transport nearby. Maybe a couple of cinemas, a dancehall and a skating rink.’
‘Did they tell you?’ said Martin.
‘Naturally, I don’t know them myself personally. The city tells us what they want. The city speaks for all of us – for you, for me, for everyone. Perhaps you think you are alone in liking trees. As a matter of fact, I like trees as much as anyone else. But there’s no use being romantic at the expense of others. Now they are making room for houses.’
‘But there isn’t room.’
‘There’s plenty of room!’ She circled with her arm the sky, the ground, the leafy distances of trunk and twig. ‘It’s waste ground,’ she said.
‘No, it’s a forest,’ Martin replied, wishing that the leaves at least would rustle and snap in protest, that branches would sway and crack in violent gestures of grief and fury. But no wind sprang up to move them. They had no voice.
‘You know I do believe you’ve got the wrong idea of me,’ said the girl, smiling. ‘Don’t imagine I don’t love nature.’ The young man who was called Martin stared at her. She was a well-groomed girl. Her shoes were very new – neither dirty nor down-at-heel. Her fingernails were immaculate. Her face was calm and well made up. Her hair would be trim and smooth until the wind got at it. She had walked through sun and rain without being torn or spat upon by pouncing trees, without getting lost, being frightened by darkness, startled by strange sounds, clawed by hateful thorns or brought down by hidden roots. God knows she would never be fool enough to eat the poison berries brought by an evil witch. She had come by way of a superstore and bought the morning-fresh sandwiches wrapped in Clingfilm.
‘It’s just,’ she explained, ‘that people are more important than trees.’ Martin glanced at the busy, unprepossessing group behind her. There was no room for sentimentality here. He saw at once that they were not more important than trees. They might, at a pinch, be more important than certain kinds of prickly bush. They were undoubtedly more important than the overpruned trees on either side of a new thoroughfare, but they did not appear, at this moment, half as important as the great trees of the old forest. Nevertheless he realized he was on dangerous territory. Might he not be felled to the ground for such thoughts?
‘Well, I see I’ve been mistaken,’ said the girl, briskly pressing her clipboard more firmly against her chest. ‘I see you are not one of us. Perhaps you’ll come to a different, more human view when you’ve had time to think about it. The trouble with you,’ she said as a parting shot, ‘is that you’re so immature. In fact, if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re what we all call green.’
‘Yes. Well, naturally I am. I’ve just joined it.’
‘Joined what?’
‘I’ve joined the Green Party.’
They stared at him pityingly. ‘Fair enough,’ said one, ‘but it’s got little to do with real day-today politics. Nothing to do with helping The People. Anyway we’ll give you one or two forms to read, and you can contact us when you change your mind.’ Martin noticed she said ‘when’ not ‘if’. There were no ‘ifs’ amongst the pionee
rs of progress.
There was an assenting murmur amongst the group as they parted to let him through. Martin walked on. There was no wind and overhead there was silence. Under his feet it was quiet too with the silence of moss and herb, fed by centuries of sun and dew. Only the snap of a pine cone came to his ears and the sound of a bird tapping at snail shells in the leaves. He was a good deal shaken by the clipboard girl and by his own childish naïvety in thinking that any growing thing could now remain untouched. Again he was astounded that his careful guardians, teachers and elderly relations could have shown him endless pictures of flowers and green forests without pointing out the huge, smiling bill-boards on the outskirts, advertising toothpaste, cigarettes and Coca Cola. Why, in their stories of fairies, elves and angels had there been no warning of wild, screaming streets, the blocks of black factories, the smell and glitter of thousands of cars along the highway?
Now, as he walked on, he noticed that the path was gradually growing harder underfoot. The moss changed into smaller and smaller stones until he found himself walking along a newly gravelled path. Suddenly an electric saw started up in front of him, beginning as a thin whine and rising to a steady, skull-shattering scream. There were wood-cutters here – not at all like the wood-choppers of his early stories, ever ready to tell a gormless traveller some unlikely tale of the woods. No, this lot were getting on with it as quickly as possible, ready to talk when the job on hand was finished. The sound of the screaming saw stopped suddenly and total silence beat about the spot. The men stood watching Martin in amiable amusement. ‘You’ve not heard that sound before?’ Martin shook his head.
The Man Who Wanted to Smell Books Page 35