Then that punishment was on him. He had to operate on Clarence, not prick and bewilder. Had to undo his arts, his graces, his wit. Clarence’s first protection would be to turn on him. A man of perverse and subtle mind, he would be quick to distort to save himself. Making me think.
Then at the Lobster Pot he acquired immediately tea, butter, bread, jam, and the first batch of the landlady’s personal fish.
“Damned hungry,” said Clarence, helping him to the one small real sole.
Ouf. Why did Clarence look so lovingly at him, when for the first time on record he threw it back on to his plate? He did not like being hurt. The others were more used to being hurt. Now that he had to hurt, he did not want to. (A reaction impossible to Carston, for whose race sadism is not fun but a serious expression.)
Ow. How much he cared for Clarence, for sport and adventure and work shared. More than them all. Except Scylla. Because that love was shot through with something like an arrow and the feather of a bird. The blood on her white shoulder, the rose feet and feather of a bird.
Ai. His breath came on different sighs. One more river to cross. To be sure that he did not act, in this, in any way like his father. That understood, he left his desperate network of light and dark and gave himself up: neither to Clarence, nor to fear: but to a space full of clear forms and veritable issues. What he must do in order not to be any way like his father. Was that to give himself to Scylla? He had met her on his path. So. The bird’s thought darted into a song:
While Clarence saw an assurance like maturity drawing itself in the set of the head and the subtle mouth.
Picus looked for a moment out to sea, and began:
“What have you been doing the last three days, since I went off to Tambourne?”
“Stayed on with Ross a bit. Walked over. Got the place shined up.”
“It must have been pretty hot?”
“The sun bored like worms into your head.”
“What happened then?”
“There was lots to do, but I found the nights, short as they are, damned long. When it isn’t dark and it’s going to get dark and you listen out. You know. But in places like this you can never tell what day which happened.”
“What was yesterday like?”
Clarence screwed round, ever so little equivocally.
“I sort of remember that something rather miserable happened in the morning. Might have been a letter.” And quickly—“But I can’t account at all for the statue being in bits. I know you’ll say it doesn’t matter what happens to my work, but Ross liked it. You said you liked it yourself—”
“Looksey,” said Picus, tenderly—“you’ve got to know, you know. You went off the deep-end again.”
“You mean I smashed it myself?”
“No. I did a bit. I mean I broke it. I felt I had to.”
Clarence listened gravely, his eyes still altering their angle.
“Well, if you thought it bad, that’s that. But you’ve taken so much of my life, do you think you should do in my work, also?”
“It wasn’t for that. You’ve forgotten about yesterday. You said something miserable happened, and it did.” (Now are his eyes shifting memory or madness?) “Remember when you thought you were a nun? This time you must have thought you were Apollo, or a roman official with an early christian. There was some story in town, and Lydia sent you a letter. And Scylla came down here on purpose to clear it up and fetch you along. She found you shooting at me, and you tied her up and shot her. Carston came over and probably saved her life. I followed, and by then you’d got through your fit and were asleep. She isn’t badly hurt. That’s what happened. Why I brought you down here. And you can kick me for my fantasies and tempers. Half the blame’s on me.” Is this going to release me? Have I been looking for that?
“It’s another of your stories,” Clarence said.
“Go up and see.”
“Excuse to put me in an asylum. I get you.”
“Balls, man. The old man at Tambourne, the vicar, I mean c’d explain. Tell us what we could do.”
“His orders aren’t even valid.”
“Don’t know what you mean. Go and see. You tied her with the lariat. You shot a gull to wing your arrows. There’s one struck her shoulder and her side. After Carston had cut her down, I smashed myself up with the axe. Sort of apology.”
“Did I really shoot a gull?”
“You shot her till she fainted.”
“Did I drag your statue out and shoot you?”
“Picked me out carefully.”
“It was the best thing I’ve done, but I haven’t hurt you, boy?”
“You threw Scylla. She cut her head on a stone. Carston took an arrow out below her left breast. She was pinned to me by her shoulder—”
“Getting kick out of it, aren’t you?”
“Go and see.”
“And face that dumb fool Carston.”
“Look at Scylla.”
“Where’s the cup?”
“You put it in the well.”
Silence, while Picus watched the bright, brown close-set eyes turn this way and that. Never into his eyes. Never out to sea. Over his shoulder, at the fish-bones, into his cup.
