What have I done?
“Now the body is not for fornication, but for the Lord.” St. Paul’s strong words from Corinthians came to him with all the authority of Scripture, and though he hated the selecting of random verses to distort larger truths and justify hurt and hate, still the words were piercing darts. He had not felt quite this way before. Before he had discerned a call to ministry, in college, in the days when he had entertained as a magician in clubs, on cruise ships, and such, he had been no tyro in the arts of love, refusing few opportunities to make a fool of himself in one fashion or another in that male eagerness to bed a woman no matter what the circumstance. There had been girlfriends, yes, one with whom he had vaguely entertained the notion of formal commitment, but he had been too restless, too searching, until he bumped into the Lord. As an ordinand, he had made a volte-face, priding himself on his continence, until he had bumped into Lisbeth or, rather, she had bumped into him, saving him from sinking like a bloody fool into the Cam in a punting mishap. His trip from a figure soaking wet on the lawn of the Cambridge Backs to her bed had been swift, ridiculously swift, should have been shamefully swift, if he hadn’t known deep within his heart that he would be with her all the days of his life—or, as was cruelly the case, all the days of her life, her sweet, short life.
And then, until this night, a dry spell. First poleaxed by grief, then hedged by the conventions and obligations of widowhood, single-fatherhood, priesthood, an outsider in a village of a thousand curious eyes and clacking tongues, less interested in his churchmanship than in his personal affairs (for what is a presentable, unwed man of a certain age but someone’s project?), he fought shy of romantic entanglement. There were some attractive women in the village, and he could feel their eyes upon him in a speculative way in the pulpit, in the street, in the pub, but only one, Màiri White, the village bobby, held an allure, possibly because her flirtation was so bold, so cheerful, so nonchalant. She made him laugh. Once, last January, he had nearly succumbed to temptation—or at least the temptation to temptation—but he had been deflected by a hellish tragedy, and the moment passed. Màiri was too young anyway, on a career trajectory that would take her to who knew where, evincing little interest in becoming a wife, much less a vicar’s wife. Tom flexed his ankle and groaned. Perhaps, he thought, he underestimated the perspicacity of Thornford’s village pump: Màiri didn’t share his direction, his education, his faith. But, my, she was easy on the eyes.
Tom shunted the coverlet and sheets aside, exposing his naked self, feeling the cool air on his flesh, forcing his attention to his ankle, the bruising a darker shade of shadow in the dark room. However, even the injury returned his mind to Lucinda, as it had proved such little impediment to their love-making, and astonishingly so. But he had been eager, she had been adept, wordlessly, tenderly conscious of his deficiency. He could feel his face burn as images of their entwined limbs rioted through his head. An unwelcome twitch turned to arousal. Hastily, he pulled the bedclothes to his neck.
Why had Lady Lucinda come to his bed? What secret trove of need drove her to seek comfort from a virtual stranger? Or had it all been but some nocturnal amusement, as you might find in a novel of manners about the English upper classes disporting themselves carelessly at a country house weekend party? Had Eggescombe witnessed other nocturnal peregrinations upstairs and down? He groaned again.
A remembered image slipped into his mind. The milky, silky underside of her forearms, stretching forth as she steadied herself on his hips, caught the moonlight, revealing random striae like threads of white ribbed silk. What affliction, he wondered, had driven her to cutting, that strange, awful release of troubled teenage girls? He knew almost nothing of the woman he had a short time earlier had in his embrace. He felt suddenly like doing a flit, snatching Miranda, finding the car, and tearing back to Thornford, left foot on the pedal, if necessary. It was all very thoughtful of Lady Fairhaven—both Ladies Fairhaven—to have him to stay, to convalesce, but he felt more than ever out of his depth, landed in something treacherous. Suddenly the breakfast table loomed. Conversation over the Weetabix seemed an impossible embarrassment. Flight was the fix.
But it wasn’t. It was the Sunday-morning impulse of a thousand craven blokes who had bedded a girl on a Saturday night. He was no better than his own self in his own spotty youth.
He struggled with pillows behind his head and pushed himself up against the headboard. Though it was August and avian courting season well over, a few birds outside his window heralded the coming dawn, a little more light crept over the tops of the curtains. He had an idea. He would do the decent thing, join the other guests for breakfast, then depart by noon with many thanks for their kindness. Madrun could drive Miranda and him to the train station at Totnes—it wasn’t far—then in London they could get a cab from Paddington to Charing Cross to catch the Gravesend train. He could return the crutches to Lady Fairhaven at some later time. If Lady Lucy chose to speak of their midnight dalliance, it would be well out of his earshot. With any luck he would never see these people again!
But breakfast was some little time off, and vacating this sweating, swinking, fusty, musty chamber of sin and corruption took on a certain urgency. He shifted to the edge of the bed and gingerly tested his bandaged foot on the floor. Pain bloomed, but did not explode. He would dress and hobble outdoors. There was a feature of Eggescombe Park he very much wanted to see before he made a hasty exit. It would be a good place to say his Morning Office. And it would be at a good time, at dawn, when the world was renewed. The hymn came to mind:
Lord, I my vows to Thee renew;
disperse my sins as morning dew;
guard my first springs of thought and will,
and with Thyself my spirit fill.
Access to the Labyrinth began with a pitch-roofed, wood-and-red-brick porch. Tom glanced at the benches on either side, each fit to seat ten pilgrims or more, while framed posters on the walls explained the provenance of labyrinths and the history and construction of the Eggescombe version, the largest hedge labyrinth in England. He hobbled past the sign-age with little regard. He knew something of labyrinths and mazes, their origins and their meaning, the more outlandish New Age spiritual claims to which he was immune. He had visited the ur-labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral on a trip to France with Dosh and Kate when he was eight and had, his mothers reminded him (though he had forgotten), raced impiously around its sinuous trail until stopped by a kindly priest. Though he was getting the hang of walking aided by his little crutchy friend, there would be no racing this morning, he considered, as he passed through the unlatched gate and on to the pebble apron heralding the single opening in the topiary hedge, the Labyrinth’s true starting point.
He lifted his eyes to the vast arrangement of bushes, a grey silhouette against the dawn’s vague paling. Only a god’s-eye view, he realised—his view from the heavens yesterday—made sense of the Labyrinth’s cunning geometry. Here, on the ground, at the entrance, the curving seams of foliage, chest-high, appeared baffling, vaguely threatening. The arrangement was reminiscent of some mythical animal, alive but slumbering. He had a moment’s irrational panic, a throb along his veins (had Theseus felt thus on his venture to the heart of Daedalus’s labyrinth?), which he quickly suppressed. Bowing his head, he awkwardly clasped his hands through the crutch’s frame.
Lord, my heart and mind are open to you.
May your gentle presence calm the storms around me,
And lead me to a place of inner peace
Forgive my foolish ways
Reclothe me in my rightful mind
Breathe through the heat of my desire
Thy coolness and Thy balm,
And let flesh retire
(Well, at least for a goodly interval, he amended.)
Amen
Raising his head, he began his journey, shuffling along a straight path for a few feet. The first bend was a veering left, and he was about to turn when some quick movement, a blur at the corner of his e
ye, drew his attention to the heart of the Labyrinth. “Hello?” he called out unthinkingly, realising at once that he was violating the Labyrinth’s norms of quiet and contemplation, but too surprised that someone else would share his notion for a pilgrimage so early in the morning. And yet he could see nothing, no movement. A head, perhaps? A woman’s head, peeking above the hedge wall? But no. As he strained his eyes farther into the thin rays of the new sun, he did indeed discern a shadowy shape, rounded, head-like, and he remembered the previous evening’s discussion of a new artwork for the Labyrinth.
Relieved and pleased, for he was savouring the privilege of private access, he continued down the arcing avenues, taking the prescribed turns where they came, keeping his head bowed prayerfully. He had been to Hampton Court Maze once, on a school trip, and with some of his mates had gotten dizzingly lost, nearly panicked, amid green walls much taller than any towering adult. Only the directional shouting of their very cross teacher brought them stumbling, at last, from the exit. But a labyrinth was not a maze. It was designed not for puzzlement and perplexity but for contemplation and tranquility. It had a single exit and entrance and a single path, coiled though it be and mystifying in its seeming meanders. It was life’s journey, of course—Dosh had said as much all those years ago at Chartres, though his eight-year-old mind hadn’t taken it in. The centre of the labyrinth was the goal. The centre was Jerusalem, enlightenment, Christ consciousness, Atman-Brahman, what-have-you. As you walked the leafy purlieus, you moved tantalizingly close to the centre, then suddenly you veered away, but eventually, always, you arrived at the transfiguring centre.
And then, transfigured yourself, you returned to the world.
Right? Or left? No such decisions were necessary in a labyrinth. Tom walked on, conscious now of the counterpoint of his breath, heartbeat, and scrunching steps along the path, his mind slipping ineluctably to the visitation in the night. Now, away from his stuffy bedroom, away from Eggescombe Hall and its mazy interior and moralistic carvings, in the still, fresh air of pre-dawn twilight, he felt the glimmerings of restoration—that, in the words of Julian of Norwich, “All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.”
God made us for joy, had He not? And mightn’t there be a grace in an encounter, however fleeting? After all, how are we to understand our embodied existence? Mightn’t desire simply be love trying to happen?
Or was he paving the road to hell?
A soft scraping sound interrupted his thoughts, and he lifted his head again, this time towards the quadrant opposite, the apparent source. Was he really not alone? Had a living figure—no statue—been at the centre of the Labyrinth after all? Lucinda? Could it be? Is this why she had left his bed, and where she had come? The notion seemed wild, unlikely. And why would she conceal herself? Unless she shared his discomfiture. Tom pricked up his ears and pressed forward. He had skirted the Labyrinth’s centre once on his journey, glanced at the shadowy shape there; now he was doubled back, twisting away from the centre. The sound came again, closer this time. Was one of the children up early and larking about? Or both of them? Max and Miranda’s heights, though greater than the hedge’s, nevertheless made hunkering down easier, but he knew the game wouldn’t endure without one of them giggling or whispering. Only random birdsong interrupted the quietude. He moved ahead, more cautiously, alert now to irregular sounds. If there was someone bent down scuttling along the path, he would run into him or her soon enough. There was only one way out of the Labyrinth: the way you came in.
He returned to his reverie with steely resolve not to be distracted: Or, he began again, was he simply rationalising? Mightn’t there be danger, rather than grace, in his encounter with Lucinda, however fleeting?
Or—?
Another scrape, closer still, though, strangely, rather softer. Tom paused again, frowned. He was now on the arc farthest from the centre. On this soft summer morning, with the sun’s touch drawing colour from the grey, staining the horizon tender pale pink, he sensed no sinister thing lurking in the Labyrinth’s dark green lanes. Untroubled by concern, he felt more peeved that this sweet opportunity for thought and prayer was being soured by some mischief-maker. Of course, some animal could be the source. He was outdoors, he realised that. However manicured and tamed, these hedges weren’t waxworks. As if to confirm his thought, before he could take another step forward, an extrusion of whiteness like cotton batting squeezed forth from under the foliage. A rabbit, Tom thought, with a flutter of relief, as the creature hunched on the pebbles. Where’s your waistcoat and watch, old man? But the light was dim by the bottom of the hedge. It wasn’t a rabbit. Those weren’t rabbit ears. It was a cat, he realised. A very fat white cat.
The cat, as if hearing Tom’s thoughts and highly offended, abruptly scampered across the pebbles and scrambled under the hedge opposite. Tom sighed, adjusted the crutch under his arm, set to continue, but, again, an unexpected noise gave him pause. No pebble scraping this time, but a rustling and thrashing, of twigs snapping and leaves tearing, somewhere on the opposite side of the Labyrinth.
A dog?
A rogue sheep?
It was then that Tom felt the first intimation of impending trouble. The crackle of disturbed foliage stopped almost as soon as it started, but the rest of nature seemed to rise up in sympathy. Protesting birds streaked noisily into the sky in a dark plume of distraction, scattering to the trees. A jackdaw sounded its high, squealing distress call. And then, as abruptly, a kind of restorative peace settled on the landscape, but a false one, Tom felt in his bones. Something or someone had surely violated the perfection of the topiary wall. Was he to encounter another creature, a more fearsome one than a cat, on the path to the centre? Or had some more fearsome creature retreated from the Labyrinth and padded silently away? Mind arrested from his own worries, concerned now that misadventure awaited, Tom limped his way more quickly along the coiled intestine of the Labyrinth. Glancing over the top of the penultimate ring, he thought he saw a blemish in the smooth topiary wall of the outermost ring, and when at last he looped around, he saw with sinking heart a dark scattering of leaves and bits of twig along the pale path ahead. In a moment, he was in front of the vandalisation itself, an ugly, ratted gash through the leafy wall. Someone—surely no animal would do this—had burrowed below its tidy trimming to escape. Fear? Panic? A labyrinth was not a maze. There was no reason here for the claustrophobic dread some suffered at Hampton Court.
Or was it a deliberate desecration?
Tom looked over the hedge towards Eggescombe’s park, misting faintly as the sun, now half a crimson ball, stirred heat into the air. Here, at the farthest point from the entrance, the Labyrinth revealed its purchase on a soft mound that sloped gently to the lawn below, to the ha-ha, and to the purpled silhouette of majestic trees in the middle distance piercing the shimmering grey sky. Nearer, his eyes settled on an ancient oak the mighty limbs of which embraced a marvellous white tree house that glowed softly in the new light. And nearer still, the pinnacled bulk of Eggescombe Hall, mullions turning to glittering diamonds. It was as magnificently timeless as it had been yesterday. Only unpeopled. Utterly unpeopled. No sound, no motion suggested anyone but himself in this arcadian landscape.
With new concern, he shifted awkwardly on his crutch. Though he had yet again swung to the farthest reaches of the eleven circuits, he had come a good distance. In a few short turns, he knew, he would be ushered into the Labyrinth’s sacred heart, where, presumably—according to the most ardent fans of such things—he would experience a kind of rebirth, though the fanciful notion that a minotaur, half man, half beast, lay in waiting crept into his mind. He snorted at the absurdity. The sound was preternaturally loud in his ears. He continued on down the path, alert to other breaches to the peace of the Lord’s day, but none came, for which he was grateful.
Around the last bend, the path straightened, resolving into a short corridor into the Labyrinth’s green nucleus. A pale silhouette emerged from t
he black bath of shadow. The head’s fine features and slim neck—more discernible now as he pushed forwards—seemed to drink in the dawn light and gleam gently, as if lit from within. The marble face wore none of the mournful piety typical of such statues; the posture suggested nothing of the torment to come. The sculptor—Roberto, presumably—had rendered, with sublime skill, the sweetness of mother and child bound in love. The chubby-limbed child fairly gurgled with bliss; the slim mother, her youthful body draped in classic modesty, rejoiced at her son. Her upturned mouth, her delicate nose, her large, wide-set eyes were so finely rendered that she seemed less a symbolic representation of the feminine than a highly individuated woman, captured in a moment of pure maternal joy. He sighed a little, earlier trepidation vanished, affected not only by the loveliness of this exquisite representation of Madonna and Child, but by a stinging of his own loss. Mary had been his first adoptive mother’s name. Had she ever held him like that? And what of his natural mother? Had she? Or had he been torn from her minutes after his birth? Liverpool: Marguerite had slipped him a clue to his natural parentage. Liverpool. How … odd.
He put the thought aside and glanced past the statue to the bordering hedge, deeply scalloped here, each cool shadowy lunation embracing a rounded wooden bench, suited to rest after the journey, and to contemplation. He had thought centres of labyrinths ought best be holy absences, places to fill with one’s own thoughts, and wondered a little at Lord Fairhaven’s conspicuous expression of his Roman Catholicism. Was it even a good marketing strategy in a nation of nominal Protestants? But the sculpture held an irresistible power he was sure others felt. He turned his thoughts to Morning Prayer, the General Confession slipping easily onto his tongue:
Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) Page 8