The Green Knight by Iris Murdoch
When Anax reached Marylebone Road he crossed it confidently at the traffic lights at Lisson Grove. He did not (another fateful decision) go up Lisson Grove, but set off ‘across country’ passing Marylebone Station and Dorset Square and entering into a complex of small streets. The conception of Regent’s Park may even have been by now present to his courageous mind. But here, where he might almost have thought himself on home territory, his daemon really began to fail. Perhaps his loss of certainty was simply due to exhaustion, he had travelled a long long way alone, his paws were hurting, his high heart was daunted. Several times now he hesitated at corners, even retraced his steps. He was going on, farther and farther – but perhaps in the wrong direction. He kept pausing and looking about him. When he raised his leg at a sack of rubbish he was confronted by a mouse. The mouse seemed fearless. It regarded Anax. Anax felt pity for the mouse, or something more like affinity, respect. He did not wantonly kill other creatures as cats do, and some dogs are taught to do. He felt such a strange feeling, as if he had lost his identity and become part of some immense world being. He ran on quickly, then walked, hoping still to regain the magnetic message, along a road which prompted no recognition, where railings enclosed the front gardens of big houses. As he passed one of these gardens Anax received an unmistakable communication, the smell of food. The iron gate was open. He entered. He traced the smell to its source. Near to a side door of the house there had lately been laid (for it was still warm) a bowl containing a mixture of meat fragments and biscuit. The meat was good. Anax set about the bowl, pushing it along with his nose. After a mouthful or two of the excellent food he was interrupted by a sharp exclamation and a smell which he disliked extremely. He lifted and saw, two yards away from him, a large black and white cat, clearly the legitimate owner of the bowl and its contents. Anax’s attitude to cats was conventional. His master had taught him not to chase them. (Whereas squirrels could be chased but of course not caught.) But the instinct of enmity, the dislike, the contempt, also the fear, remained. The cat was an alien, a foe, unlucky, dangerous. The sound it had just uttered was neither a hiss nor a mew, but a loud violent utterance which might have belonged to a large bird, a hoarse piercing squawking cry of hate. Anax, facing the cat, retreated, he growled but softly, not a ferocious threat, more like a firm admonition. The cat followed. Its large luminous green eyes horribly slit with black stared hypnotically at Anax and its large white paws moved majestically as with evident intent it advanced. Anax felt that if he turned tail the cat would spring upon him, he pictured it landing upon his back. He continued to retreat, growling, and watching the luminous eyes. Then suddenly the cat leapt towards him. Anax saw the animal rise, all four paws leaving the ground, and seeming to hover, arrested for a moment in his attention, as he stared at the open mouth of his enemy, its white teeth, its red tongue, its open throat, and breathed in the vile effluvium of its breath. At the next moment Anax had leapt too, twisting sideways in the air and streaking for the open gate. The cat’s claws touched the thick fur of his tail. Then he was running as fast as he could along the pavement. There was no pursuit, only a distant trilling bird-cry of mockery.
Meanwhile Clement had passed Marble Arch, been delayed by a traffic jam in Oxford Street, and turned up Gloucester Place. He was so tired and fed up that at moments he forgot what he was supposed to be doing, though he continued to look about him and to follow the ‘trail’. He kept on going over and over his new awful situation, the mistakes he had made and the sins he had committed. When Lucas had handed him the weapon and told him to go away and keep his mouth shut, Clement had simply obeyed his elder brother. Nor did it occur to him during the trial that he, Clement, was potentially a very valuable witness, or that his silence might do damage to an innocent person. When the victim ‘died’ Clement felt some vague pity and a considerable relief. They had all kept away from Lucas’s ordeal, they did not want to embarrass him by being inquisitive spectators, they had preferred not to reflect about it, only hoping for it to be over and Lucas, of course, cleared of any shadow of wrong-doing. During the period of Lucas’s disappearance Clement had as if forgotten the dreadful happening. He was taking refuge in this respect with ‘the others’, more occupied with worrying about Lucas’s whereabouts, his welfare, even the possibility that he had killed himself. He had missed Lucas, he had wanted Lucas, as a younger brother might want an older brother who had always been kind to him, a protector, like a father. Am I mad, Clement wondered, am I not aware that he intended to kill me? I have busied my mind with wrapping up that fact, de-realising it, making it not to be. Anyway, he didn’t kill me, and he might not have done, even if I hadn’t been rescued by poor Peter Mir. Very likely he wouldn’t have done it, he would have found it impossible. Now it’s all got mixed up, Mir has an extra motive for hating Lucas, for not forgiving him, Lucas not only damaged Mir, destroying his life as he says, he was also engaged at the time in an attempted murder and so is revealed as an evil man, who cannot get away with it by talking about accidents. The picture of Lucas is darkened, it’s lurid, it’s bloodstained, he is presented as a villain. Well, he is a villain, perhaps he ought to be punished! But what, in all this, am I to do, what will happen now, if Mir tells the police and the press and they start to interrogate me? I’ll figure as an accomplice in my own murder! Or else – in Lucas’s murder. If Mir exposes Lucas I shall be blamed too, I shall have to give evidence, Lucas will be put in prison, and perhaps I shall as well. If Mir decides to go it alone and employs someone to do the job, if Lucas is found dead and I have been silent, never revealed to anyone that Lucas might be in danger, then I shall be guilty of Lucas’s death.
These thoughts, like sharp roving pains, occupied the deeper parts of Clement’s mind as he drove slowly in the evening traffic along Gloucester Place. Trying to concentrate upon the task which Louise had put upon him, to find Moy and Anax, he told himself that probably by now they were both safely back at home. He said to himself, ‘I’ll find a telephone box, I’ll ring Clifton and – ’ He suddenly jammed on the brakes and swung the car aside out of the traffic, mounting two wheels onto the pavement. He had seen Moy. Or was it an apparition, a thought of Moy? He jumped out of the car and ran back, then forward, bumping into people. Had he really seen her, little Moy, walking slowly along, dressed in trousers and a jersey? Yes, it was Moy, she had seen him, she had run to him and he was leaning down to embrace her, putting his arms round her as she leant against him.
‘Oh Moy, thank God!’
‘Have you found Anax?’
‘No, but Sefton and Aleph are out looking for him. What a miracle that I saw you, I’m so glad, I was looking for you, I’ll take you home, we’ve been so terribly worried. Anax has probably gone back to your house by now, he wouldn’t have gone far away. Come now, why you haven’t got a coat, we’ll go back home.’
‘No, no, I must go on, I’ll walk on, you go on by car, he must have gone back to Bellamy’s house, where Bellamy used to live – you go on, please, in the car.’
‘I’m not going to leave you, now that I’ve miraculously found you! Do as I tell you, come. All right, if you like we’ll drive on as far as Bellamy’s place. Heavens how cold it is and you haven’t any coat!’
With murmurs of protest Moy climbed into the car and Clement drove on in the slow procession of evening cars. Moy beside him was shuddering. He reached out his warm hand and touched, then held, her hand. It was icy cold. ‘You’re frozen! I’ll turn up the heating, you’ll soon be warm in here. Poor little Moy, fighting with a swan, they told me, and now this!’
‘It’s all my fault, I should have closed the door, we’ll never find Anax, he’ll be run over, he may be dead by now, oh why didn’t I – ’
‘Don’t worry, he’s all right, we’ll find him, he’ll come back – ’
Moy was holding tightly onto his hand and had lifted it and was pressing it against her cold cheek. Now it seemed she was kissing it. She moaned and said, ‘Oh Clement – ’
He
Anax was now completely lost. He had hurried on, then wandered randomly on, trying to recognise some landmark or be guided in some direction, but now he had given up hope, he had lost all sense of orientation. The magnetic beam was quenched, the purposeful certainty, the energy, which had made him able to run so far and so fast, had vanished from him. He felt tired, hungry, and now frightened. Darkness was falling, the street lights were on. He could not conceive of retracing his steps, he did not know where he had come from, he felt no motive to go on, yet was unable and unwilling to stop. When he stood uncertainly at corners people stared at him. He had to pretend he was going somewhere. He felt shame and misery at the idea of being seen to be a lost dog. A little rain was falling. The night would come, the night when he had used to settle to sleep in safety – but this night would find him still walking, still wandering, homeless. What could he do, walk till he dropped? He feared everything, everyone, every human was now his enemy. Even the thought of his master, the great certainty which had illumined his life and made his joy, was confused, made senseless, covered in darkness, as if it had never been. He had no identity, no being. A horror had seized him like a black dream, a memory of a time before time, before his master had come to him.
Anax began to run. He was now once again a dog without a master, a dog without a name. So they would find him and take him back to that terrible place, among those poor degraded dogs, who smelt of sickness and doom. Desperately he ran through streets of bright shops, stared at, knocking against legs, uttering a little whining sound. He ran on into darker emptier streets where there were big houses and many trees. He felt his heart breaking. He stopped at last, breathless and panting, breathing in the thick foggy air. His coat was wet with the little mild rain. The pavement was wet and cold. He walked on slowly, his head down, his bushy tail drooping to the ground.
A man, holding an umbrella above his head, was coming towards him. Anax lifted his head and lifted his muzzle. He breathed. Something very strange was happening. The man passed close to him. Anax sniffed at his trousers. The man stopped. There was a faint gentle reassuring smell, a smell almost it might seem of Anax himself. He raised his head further and looked up at the man above him. The man leaned down and stroked him. Anax began to wag his tail.
The man said, to himself, ‘Wait a minute.’ Then he said to Anax, ‘Haven’t I seen you before? I saw you outside their house with your master. I think you’re Anax – yes, you know your name, don’t you – ? But whatever are you doing here all by yourself? Are you by yourself? I think you are, you must be lost – there, there, poor fellow, I’ll look after you – in fact I’ll take you back to the house where the ladies live – you won’t run away, will you, you’ll come with me, my car is just here.’
Anax, trembling with relief, walked beside him, breathing in the magical reviving smell. When they reached the black Rolls he leapt in through the door which Peter Mir opened and settled himself in the passenger seat. As the car set off Peter continued to talk to him. ‘Anax, I’m ready to bet they are worrying about you down there. You know, you’re miles away from home. Whatever were you up to, to come here? Perhaps you were running away to where you used to live. Yes, that must be it. Anyway, they’ll tell me – if they let me in. Well, they’ll be so pleased to see you – Perhaps some god sent you to me, little one.’ Mir’s deep liquid voice with its strange caressing accent murmured on. As they moved slowly through the evening traffic of central London, Anax fell asleep.
Meanwhile Clement and Moy had arrived back at Clifton. They had driven on to where Bellamy used to live, rung the bell of the flat getting no answer, looked about outside, and left messages with sympathetic neighbours. Moy wanted to stay, standing at the door all night, but Clement of course insisted on taking her home. There were cries of joy for Moy’s return, and then various attempts to invent how it would somehow ‘be all right’ about Anax, how he would come back and scratch at the door any moment, how he was so clever and would find some warm place to spend the night, how no harm could possibly come to him and so on. While Clement and the girls were away Louise had telephoned the police (why didn’t they think of that before?) and given them Anax’s description, and the police were so understanding and sympathetic, and now policemen all over London would be looking out for Anax, and as he was such an unusual and beautiful dog they would be sure to find him. Clement reflected less optimistically that Anax’s unusual beauty was more likely to lead to his being kidnapped, only he did not say this. He was deeply disturbed by his conversation with Moy, why had Louise suggested such a thing, and why on earth had he felt that it was his duty to utter those stupid wounding words, Moy would never forgive, certainly never forget, he had made a deep wound in his relationship, which had been so perfect, with these girls. Would Moy tell the others of his boorish conduct? He thought not. He thought, she’ll brood upon it silently. We shall never be friends again. Oh God!
They were all standing in the kitchen with the door open and the front door ajar. The cold foggy air was blowing in. The rain had stopped. Louise had feebly suggested something to eat, something to drink, but no one had the heart for any refreshment. Clement felt hungry, but also that food would make him sick. Louise looked very tired and could not banish a look of intense grief which invaded her would-be calm face at intervals. Clement could not make out whether or not she wanted him to go. Aleph and Sefton, still in their cycling gear, looked dejected, halfheartedly joining in the chorus of false hopes. Sefton had managed to fall off her bike beside the canal and her trousers were muddy. Clement kept composing speeches of farewell which could get him out of the house without embarrassment. At the same time he wanted somehow to communicate with Moy, to catch her eye, to find something affectionate and apologetic to say, but she refused to look at him. She was wearing a big woollen cardigan belonging to Louise. Her long hair, its bright colour dimmed, hung about her in long damp strings, her lips moved, trembling or uttering silent words as, gazing down, she kept rapping her knuckles upon the table against which she was leaning.
A silence had fallen and Clement was trying to find a form of words to break it, when suddenly, swiftly, silently Anax was among them. He darted in through the open front door and into the kitchen. Amid the joyful tumult he perfunctorily greeted Moy, then hurried to his bowl, in which the meal that Sefton had made for him so long ago was still waiting. Tears of relief were in Louise’s eyes, Moy was kneeling on the floor beside Anax. Clement went to the front door to close it.
A tall figure was standing on the doorstep. ‘May I come in too?’ said Peter Mir.
‘So you all play the piano?’
‘Oh yes, but Aleph is best – this is Aleph, these two are Sefton and Moy.’
‘I know which is which, I’ve learnt quickly. What do you do, Moy, besides piano playing?’
‘She collects stones!’ said Aleph, ‘and paints pictures!’
‘We all sing,’ said Sefton.
‘Oh good, I sing too!’
‘Those funny names,’ said Louise, ‘are of course not their real nam
‘What are their real names?’
‘Alethea, and Sophia and Moira, but they decided to be called Aleph and Sefton and Moy!’
‘Aleph – that’s Hebrew, it’s the letter A.’
‘I know,’ said Aleph. She blushed.
‘Didn’t you want to be Alethea? It means truth, well of course you know that. It’s such a lovely name.’
‘I just – ’
‘May I call you Alethea? I think I will!’
‘Oh – of course – ’
‘The Princess Alethea. And will you please call me “Peter”.’
‘Fancy your just finding him like that,’ said Louise, ‘it’s like a miracle!’
‘He came to me, he recognised me.’
‘But he’s never seen you, and you’ve never seen him!’
‘I encountered him outside this house in the days when I – I hope Clement told you – ’
‘Of course, when you used to wait about outside, we all know that,’ said Louise.
‘I hope you forgive me.’
‘We forgive you everything!’ cried Sefton. ‘But my theory is that some of Anax’s hairs got onto your coat when you were sitting in that chair – ’
There was much exclaiming over the miracle and its explanation. They were all now in the Aviary drinking wine and talking away with such extraordinary happiness and freedom as if they had known Peter (as he insisted on being called) all their lives. (‘Like an uncle,’ as Sefton later said to Aleph.) They had run over and over all the events of the day, Moy’s dramatic encounter with the swan, how Anax ran off, how they all searched the roads, how they decided Anax must be going to Bellamy’s old flat, how Clement appeared, how they studied the routes, how Aleph and Sefton set off on their bikes, how Sefton fell off her bike, how Clement set off in his car, and how he so wonderfully found Moy, and how Peter so wonderfully found Anax, it was a day of miracles, well, a day of terrible things and then wonderful things! They were standing up in a circle, too excited to sit down. The only calm being present was Anax who was curled up on the sofa. For a while he watched them with his sly blue eyes and responded with a faintly quivering tail to Moy’s caresses, then he fell into a deep sleep.