Possession

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Possession Page 37

by A. S. Byatt


  Half sable serpent, half a mourning Queen

  Crowned and thick-veiled. Then they cross themselves

  And make their peace with Heaven’s blessed King

  And with a cry of pain she vanishes,

  Unable, so they say, to hear that Name,

  Forever banished from the hope of Heaven.

  The old nurse says, within the castle-keep

  The innocent boys slept in each other’s arms

  To keep away the chill from hearts and limbs.

  And in the dead of night a slender hand

  Would part the hangings, and lift sleepy forms

  To curl and suck the mother’s milky breasts

  As they had dreamed they did, and all the while

  Warm tears in silence mingled with the milk

  In dreaming mouths combining sweet and salt,

  So that they smile for warmth, and weep for loss,

  And waking, hope and fear to dream again.

  So says the old nurse, and the boys grow strong.

  Outside our small safe place flies Mystery.

  We hear it howl adown the winds; we see

  Its forces set great whirlpools on the spin

  In the dark deeps, as a child sets a top

  Idly in motion, whips it for a while

  Then tires and lets it stagger. On grey walls

  We see the indents of its viewless teeth.

  We hear it snake beneath the forest floor

  Weaving the lives and deaths of roots, the weft

  And warp of pillar-boles and tracery

  Of twigs and sighing sunkist canopies

  Which sway and change, glow and decay and fall.

  Inhuman Powers cross our little lives.

  The whale’s warm milk runs beneath icy seas.

  Electric currents run from eye to eye

  And pole to pole, magnetic messages

  From out our Beings, through them, and beyond.

  The whelk’s foot grips; the waves pile fragments up

  Smooth sands compacted, skull on shell on scrap

  Of horny carapace on silex sparks

  Sandstone and chalk and grit, and out of these

  Sculpts dunes like dinosaurs and mammoth banks

  And breaks them back to flying specks of stuff.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  I read, writ in the ancient chronicle

  By John of Arras (who wrote for his Lord

  To please and to instruct), “King David said

  The judgments of the Lord are like vast deeps

  With neither wall nor bottom, where the soul

  Spins in a place without foundation

  Which comprehensively engulfs the mind

  That cannot comprehend it.” The monk, John,

  Humbly concludes the human soul should not

  Use reason where it cannot stretch to work.

  A reasonable man, says the good monk,

  Must see that Aristotle told the truth

  Who stated firmly that the world contained

  Creatures invisible and visible

  Both in their kind. He cited next St Paul

  Who claimed the first Invisibles of the world

  As witnesses to their Creator’s Power,

  Beyond the scope of men’s inquiring mind

  Save as revealed from time to time in Books

  Writ by wise men, as guides to wandering wits.

  And in the air, says the brave Monk, there fly

  Things, Beings, Creatures, never seen by us

  But very potent in their wandering world,

  Crossing our heavy paths from time to time,

  And such, he says, are faeries or Fates

  Who Paracelsus said were Angels once

  Now neither damn’d nor blessèd, simply tossed

  Eternally between the solid earth

  And Heav’n’s closed golden gate.…

  Not good enough to save, spirits of air

  Not evil neither, with no steadfast harm

  In their intents, but simply volatile.

  The Laws of Heaven run through the earth as poles

  That twist and turn this Globe at His command

  Or net (to change the metaphor) the skies

  And seas and all the swaying, moving mass

  In fine constraining meshes, beyond which

  Matter slips not, and mind may never step

  Save into vacant Horror and Despair

  Forms of illusion only

  What are they

  Who haunt our dreams and weaken our desires

  And turn us from the solid face of things?

  Sisters of Horror, or Heav’n’s exiled queens

  Reduced from spirit-power to fantasy?

  The Angels of the Lord, from Heaven’s Gate

  March helmeted in gold and silver ranks

  Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers,

  As quick as thought between desire and deed.

  They are the instruments of Law and Grace.

  Then who are those who wander indirect

  Those whose desires mount precipice of Air

  As easy as say wink, or plunge again

  For pleasure of the terror in the cleft

  Between the dark brow of a mounting cloud

  And plain sky’s opal ocean? Who are they

  Whose soft hands cannot shift the fixèd chains

  Of cause and law that bind the earth and sea

  And ice and fire and flesh and blood and time?

  When heavenly Eros lay at Psyche’s side,

  Her envious sisters said, the light of day

  Would show a monstrous serpent was her Lord.

  When she transgressed and held the trembling flame

  Over the bed, the drops of wax fell fast

  On love in perfect human form, who rose

  In burning anger from his place and fled.

  But let the Power take a female form

  And ’tis the Power is punished. All men shrink

  From dire Medusa and her writhing locks.

  Who weeps for Scylla in her cave of bones,

  Thrashing her tail and howling for her fate

  With yelping hound-mouths, though she once was fair,

  Loved by the sea-god for her mystery

  Daughter of Hecate, beautiful as Night?

  Who weeps the fall of Hydra’s many heads?

  The siren sings and sings, and virtuous men

  Bind ears and eyes and sail resolved away

  From all her pain that what she loves must die,

  That her desire, though lovely in her song

  Is mortal in her kiss to mortal men.

  The feline Sphinx roamed free as air and smiled

  In the dry desert at those foolish men

  Who saw not that her crafted Riddle’s clue

  Was merely Man, bare man, no Mystery,

  But when they found it out they spilt her blood

  For her presumption and her Monstrous shape.

  Man named Himself and thus assumed the Power

  Over his Questioner, till then his Fate—

  After, his Slave and victim.

  And what was she, the Fairy Melusine?

  Were these her kin, Echidna’s gruesome brood,

  Scaly devourers, or were those her kind

  More kind, those rapid wanderers of the dark

  Who in dreamlight, or twilight, or no light

  Are lovely Mysteries and promise gifts—

  Whiteladies, teasing dryads, shape-changers—

  Like smiling clouds, or sparkling threads of streams

  Bright monsters of the sea and of the sky

  Who answer longing and who threaten not

  But vanish in the light of rational day

  Doomed by their own desire for human souls,

  For settled hearths and fixèd human homes.

  Shall I presume to tell the Fairy’s tale?

  Medd
le with doom and magic in my song

  Or venture out into the shadowland

  Beyond the safe and solid? Shall I dare?

  Help me Mnemosyne, thou Titaness,

  Thou ancient one, daughter of Heaven and Earth,

  Mother of Muses, who inhabit not

  In flowery mount or crystal spring, but in

  The dark and confin’d cavern of the skull—

  O Memory, who holds the thread that links

  My modern mind to those of ancient days

  To the dark dreaming Origins of our race,

  When visible and invisible alike

  Lay quietly, O thou, the source of speech

  Give me wise utterance and safe conduct

  From hearthside storytelling into dark

  Of outer air, and back again to sleep,

  In Christian comfort, in a decent bed.

  BOOK I

  A draggled knight came riding o’er the moor.

  Behind him fear, before him empty space.

  His horse, besprent with blood, dispirited,

  Came slowly on, and stumbled as he came,

  Feeling the rider’s slackness, and the reins

  Slack too, against his sweat-streaked neck. The day

  Drew in, and on the moor small shadows stirred

  And ate the heather-roots, and flowed in tongues

  Of seal-skin soft and sly insidious shape

  Between the hill’s clefts and the dark gill’s mouth

  Whither, for lack of will, they two were drawn.

  For all the moor, immense, characterless

  Shrubby and shapeless, stretched about their feet

  Off ring no point of hold, nor track to guide

  Save witless wanderings of nibbling sheep.

  Between the wild moor and the mother Sun

  Is reciprocity of flash and frown.

  When she is hid, the heather’s knotted mat

  Of purple bell-heather and pinker ling

  Lies in an unreflective sullen gloom,

  A rough black coat, indifferently cast o’er

  The peat and grit and flints, extending on

  As far as eye can see, to the high riggs.

  But when she smiles, a thousand thousand lights

  Gleam out from sprig and floret or from where

  The white sand on the crow-stones in the peat

  Glitters in tracery ’neath amber pools

  Of shining rain, and all the moor is live

  Basking and smiling up, as She smiles down.

  And after rain, live vapours rise and play

  Curvet and eddy over the live ling,

  Current and counter-current, like a sea

  Or, as the shepherds say, like summer colts

  At play above a meadow, or like geese

  Who skim the air and water in their flight.

  So uniform, so various, is the Moor.

  But he rode on, nor looked to right nor left

  All lustreless, his first fine fury gone

  With which he fled the boar-hunt and the death—

  Death at his hand, and death at random dealt

  To Aymeri, his kinsman and his Lord.

  Defensive stroke working an unkind Fate

  On him most kind, most genial and most brave

  Whom most he loved and most he wished to spare.

  Before his weary eyes a veil of blood

  Beat, and his brain beat with its motion

  Despair and die, for what is left to do?

  Between two boulders bald the horse stepped down

  Into a narrow track within a cleft

  Whose flanks were wind-blown, clothed with juniper,

  Bilberry and stunted thorn-trees. Water oozed

  Out of the clammy rock-face, water brown

  With juice of peat, and black with powdered soot

  From ancient swidden. Neath the heavy hoofs

  Broke little trains of stones which jounced a while

  And clattered down into the brook beneath.

  The stone struck chill. The cleft wound in and down.

  How long he was descending, he knew not.

  But in his blood-grief and extreme fatigue

  He slowly knew that he had heard the sound

 

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