The Spire by William Golding
Then he was jerked up out of himself. The dumb man stood by him, with no leather apron and no shaped stone in his hands, but humming with his empty mouth. He even laid a hand on Jocelin to pull him; and ran away again, into a commotion at the crossways.
I must go to them, thought Jocelin, as he watched the dumb man vanish through the flashes in his head.
He spoke aloud.
‘I eat too little, and the Lenten Fasts exhausted me. Who am I that I should dare to mortify flesh necessary to the work?’
He heard shouting from the crossways, and the urgency of it got him on his feet. He hurried down the ambulatory and stood, blinking in the light of the crossways. The sunlight made haloes where his eyes looked out of his aching head, but he frowned at them with a fierce effort of will and they subsided. He could not tell at first what the trouble was, because Rachel came circling and babbling and it cost him some more will to shut her out. All the men of the army were in the crossways, the whole crowd of them. The women, except Rachel, were grouped in the north transept. Yet in the first few seconds of his entry he saw how more people joined those already there, whispered a little, then were still and tense as the others. It was as if all the players were present at an interlude, standing still, and waiting for the drum to sound. There was Goody Pangall, Pangall with his broom, Jehan, the dumb man, Roger Mason; it was as if they were clockfigures, frozen in attitudes of mechanical activity and waiting for the hour to strike. They were an irregular circle, and the centre of this circle was the open pit. On this side — and sick and fretful as Jocelin was, he recognised the cleverness of it — a sheet of metal had been set up on a trestle so that the sun was trapped and hurled straight down the pit. Jehan and the master builder crouched on the other side, looking down.
Jocelin went quickly to the pit, with Rachel clacking by him; but as he reached it, the master builder lifted his head.
‘Everybody get further off — go on! Right into the transepts!’
Jocelin opened his mouth to speak; but Roger whispered fiercely at Rachel.
‘You — get out of the light! Right out of the church!’
Rachel went. Roger Mason put his head to the edge of the hole again. Jocelin knelt by him.
‘What is it, my son? Tell me!’
Roger Mason went on staring down the hole.
‘Look at the bottom. Keep still, and watch.’
Jocelin leaned forward on his hands, and a weight of hot water seemed to run from his neck into the back of his head, so that he had trouble in not crying out. He shut his eyes tightly and waited for the flashes of sickness and pain to go out of them. By him, he heard Roger whisper.
‘Look right at the bottom.’
He opened his eyes again, and the reflected sunlight in the pit was easy to them. It was peaceful, secluded. He could see the different kinds of soil all the way down. First there was stone, six inches of it, the slabs on which they knelt; then, as it were hanging from this lip, the sides became fragmented stone held together with accretions of lime. Beneath that again was a foot or two of furry things that might be the crushed and frayed ends of brushwood. Beneath that was dark earth, stuck everywhere with pebbles; and the bottom was a darker patch, with more pebbles. There seemed little enough to look at, but the quiet light from the metal sheet was restful; and no one made any noise.
Then, as Jocelin looked, he saw a pebble drop with two clods of earth; and immediately a patch perhaps a yard square fell out of the side below him and struck the bottom with a soft thud. The pebbles that fell with it lay shining dully in the reflected light, and settled themselves in their new bed. But as he watched them and waited for them to settle, the hair rose on the nape of his neck; for they never settled completely. He saw one stir, as with a sudden restlessness; and then he saw that they were all moving more or less, with a slow stirring, like the stirring of grubs. The earth was moving under the grubs, urging them this way and that, like porridge coming to the boil in a pot; and the grubs were made to crawl by it, as dust will crawl on the head of a tapped drum.
Jocelin jerked out his hand and made a defensive sign at the bottom of the pit. He glanced at Roger Mason, who was staring at the grubs, lips tight round his teeth, a yellow pallor shining through his skin which was not all reflection.
‘What is it, Roger? What is it?’
Some form of life; that which ought not to be seen or touched, the darkness under the earth, turning, seething, coming to the boil.
‘What is it? Tell me!’
But the master builder still strained down, eyes wide open.
Doomsday coming up; or the roof of hell down there. Perhaps the damned stirring, or the noseless men turning over and thrusting up; or the living, pagan earth, unbound at last and waking, Dia Mater. Jocelin found one hand coming up to his mouth; and all at once he was racked with spasms, and making the same sign over and over again.
There came a sharp scream from by the south west pillar. Goody Pangall stood there, her basket still rolling at her feet. From below the steps that led up to the wooden screen cutting off the choir, there came an imperious smack; and flicking or flinching that way, Jocelin saw bits of stone skittering out like pieces of smashed ice on the ice of a pond. One triangular piece the size of his palm slid to the edge of the pit and dropped in. And with the piece of stone, came something else; the high ringing of unbearable, unbelievable tension. It came from nowhere in particular, could not be placed, but sounded equally at the centre of things and at the periphery; it was needles in either ear. Another stone smacked down so that a leaping fragment clanged on the metal sheet.
All at once there was a tumult of human noises, shouts and curses and screams. There was movement too, which as it began, became at once violent and uncontrolled. There were many ways out of the crossways and no two people seemed to have the same idea about how to go. As he got to his feet and backed hastily away from the pit, Jocelin saw hands and faces, feet, hair, cloth and leather — saw them momentarily without taking them in. The metal screen went down with a crash. He was jerked against a pillar and a mouth — but whose mouth? — screamed near him.
‘The earth’s creeping!’
He put his hands to fend off and somewhere the master builder was shouting.
‘Still!’
And marvellously all the noise died away so there was nothing left but the high, mad ringing of tension. As it died, the master builder shouted again.
‘Still! “Still!” I said! Get stone, any stone — fill the pit!’
Then the noises broke out once more, but this time in a kind of chant.
‘Fill the pit! Fill the pit! Fill the pit!’
Jocelin crouched against the pillar as the crowd swirled and shredded away. Now I know what I must do, he thought, this is what I am for. So as the edge of the crowd came back — two hands bore a head of Dean Jocelin and hurled it into the pit — he crept past the pillar and into the ambulatory. He went, not into the Lady Chapel, but into the choir, and knelt in a stall as nearly under the key of the arch as he could get. The singing of the stones pierced him, and he fought it with jaws and fists clenched. His will began to burn fiercely and he thrust it into the four pillars, tamped it in with the pain of his neck and his head and his back, welcomed in some obscurity of feeling the wheels and flashes of light, and let them hurt his open eyes as much as they would. His fists were before him on the stall but he never noticed them. He felt confusedly and mutinously: It is a kind of prayer! So he knelt, stiff, painful and enduring; and all the time, the singing of the stones operated on the inside of his head. At last, when he understood nothing else at all, he knew that the whole weight of the building was resting on his back. He passed, in this frozen attitude, through a point of no time and no sight. It was only when he was puzzled by the two shapes in front of him, that he realised he had come back from somewhere; and looking round the flashes of light — but now they were glossier and swam rather than jerked — he saw the shapes were his two fists, still ground into the wood
‘Reverend Father.’
Suddenly Jocelin was back in the world; but not entirely. Too much had altered, too much been rearranged. He moistened his lips, allowed his fists to unclench; yet there was that within him which he could not unclench.
‘Well, Roger, my son?’
Roger Mason smiled even more broadly.
‘I’ve been watching you, and waiting.’
(And can you see how my will burns, Bullet Head? I fought him, and he didn’t win.)
‘I’m always here for you when you need me.’
‘You?’
The master builder put his hands to the back of his head and moved it sideways as if he were freeing it from something. That’s what it is, thought Jocelin. It’s freed him. He thinks it’s freed him. He can’t see. He doesn’t know. For the moment there’s a kind of ease in him.
The master builder let his hands down and nodded thoughtfully, as if he conceded a point.
‘Right, Father. I’ve never denied your interest — even your enthusiasm. You couldn’t know of course. But things have settled themselves, haven’t they? And I’m glad, in a way. No. Not in a way; in every way. Things have come to a point.’
‘What point?’
Roger Mason laughed easily, in the dim choir, like a man at peace.
‘It stands to reason. Now we must stop building.’
Jocelin smiled with his lips. He saw Roger from a long way off, and small. Now, he thought. We shall see.
‘Explain yourself then.’
The master builder examined the palms of his hands, knocked dust off them.
‘You know as well as I do, Reverend Father. We’ve gone as high as we can.’
He grinned at Jocelin.
‘After all, you have one light completed, one window. You can have a pinnacle at each corner, and four heads of Dean Jocelin — we shall have to cut them again, by the way — one above each window. We’ll lead in a roof and you can put a weathercock in the middle. Do more; and the earth’ll creep again. You were right, you see. It’s incredible even for that generation; but there aren’t any foundations. None at all worth having. Just mud.’
Careful of the weight on his back and the suggestion of his angel’s return, Jocelin sat upright in his stall and folded his hands in his lap
‘What would satisfy you, Roger? I mean, by the rules of your art, how could you make the spire safe?’
‘I couldn’t. Or put it this way, there’s nothing I can do. If you had all the time and money in the world, let alone the art and skill — well then; we could take down the cathedral stone by stone. We could dig a pit a hundred yards each way, and say, forty feet deep. Then we could fill it with rubble. But the water would get there first of course. How many men with how many buckets? And imagine the nave, standing all that time on the lip of a cliff of mud! You see, Father?’
Jocelin looked away for a moment at the altar through the fire of his head. This is what it is, he thought, this is what it is to offer oneself and have the offer accepted.
‘You’re a man for a very little dare.’
‘I dare as much as most.’
‘That’s still very little. Where’s your faith?’
‘Faith or no faith, Father, we’ve come to the end. That’s all there is to it.’
And this is how a will feels when it is linked to a Will without limit or end.
‘There’s building work to be had at last, Roger. Malmesbury, isn’t it?’
The master builder looked at him expressionlessly.
‘If you say so.’
‘I know so and so do you. You’d find safe wintering there, and work for your army, you think.’
‘Men must live.’
There was a sudden burst of noise from the crossways that fanned some feeling into irritation. Jocelin shut his eyes against it and spoke angrily.
‘What was that?’
‘It’s my men. They’re waiting.’
‘For our decision.’
‘The earth made it for us!’
The master builder’s deep breathing came close to the shut eyes.
‘Finish now, Father, while there’s still time.’
‘While there’s other work for the army.’
Now the master builder’s voice was angry too.
‘All right then. Have it your own way if you like!’
He felt the breathing go away, and put out his hand quickly.
‘Wait a moment. Wait!’
He put his clasped hands on the desk and bowed his forehead gently on them. He thought to himself; presently my whole body will be on fire, my pulse a blinding one. But this is what I am for.
‘Roger? Are you there?’
‘Well?’
‘I’ll tell you a thing. What’s closer than brother and brother, mother and child? What’s closer than hand and mouth, closer than the thought to the mind? It’s vision, Roger. I don’t expect you to understand that —’
‘But of course I understand!’
Jocelin lifted his face and smiled suddenly.
‘You do, do you?’
‘But there comes a point when vision’s no more than a child’s playing let’s pretend.’
‘Ah!’
He shook his head, slowly and carefully; and the lights swam.
‘Then you don’t understand at all. Not at all.’
Roger Mason moved over the smooth tiles and stood looking down.
‘Reverend Father. I — admire you. But the solid earth argues against us.’
‘Closer than the solid earth to the foot.’
Roger put a hand on either hip, as if he had made up his mind. His voice was louder.
‘Listen. You can say what you like. I’ve made the decision for us.’
‘You’re breaking it to me, then.’
‘I understand in a way what it means to you. That’s why I’m prepared to explain. There are other things, you see. They trapped me.’
‘The tent.’
‘What tent?’
‘Never mind.’
‘I might have been caught — but now the building’s impossible, I can go away, go right away, forget, however much it costs me.’
‘Break the web.’
‘It’s only gossamer, after all. Who ever would have thought it!’
Carefully, his eye on the open trap, Jocelin nodded at the animal.
‘Only gossamer.’
‘And there’s another thing. What’s his priesthood to a priest? There’s a thing you have a right to know about, Father. You could call it Builder’s Honour.’
‘With more work for the army at Malmesbury.’
‘I’m trying to tell you!’
‘So you can keep this honour and the army too. Things aren’t as easy as that. They cost more than that, Roger.’
‘Well then. Forgive me.’
Goody Pangall and Rachel began to circle through the fire in his head. All the faces of the Chapter — I had a vision. I would protect her if I could — protect all of them. But we are each responsible for our own salvation.
‘There’s no one but you who can build it. That’s what they said. Notable Roger Mason.’
‘There’s no one at all.’
And from the crossways; a shout of anger, then laughter.
‘Who knows, Roger? Perhaps a braver man —’
Stubborn silence.
‘You’re asking me to release you from a sealed contract. I can’t do it.’
Roger’s words were a mumble.
‘All right then. Whatever happens, I’ve decided.’
Escape from the web, from cowardice and little dares.
‘Take time, my son.’
He heard m
‘Wait.’
He heard the man stop and turn. Where have I come to, he thought dizzily. What am I about to do? But what else can I do?
‘Well, Father?’
Jocelin answered him fretfully, hands over his eyes.
‘Wait a moment. Wait!’
It was not that he needed time; for the decision had made itself. He felt behind his eyes a kind of sick apprehension, not because the spire was in danger; but because the spire was not in danger — never more strongly ordained and planted, more inevitably to be built. And therefore he knew what he must do.
He began to tremble from head to foot, as the stones must have trembled when they began to sing. Then, like the singing, the trembling passed away, left him still and cold.
‘I wrote to Malmesbury, Roger. To the abbot. I knew what was in his mind. I let it be known how long we shall need you here. He will look elsewhere.’
He heard quick steps towards him in the choir.
‘You — !’
He lifted his head and opened his eyes carefully. There was not much light left in the choir, and now, what there was, seemed all run into dazzles and haloes that lay round every object. They lay round the master builder, who clutched with both hands the edge of the desk. His hands had clamped on it and moved as if they would twist it apart. Jocelin blinked at the haloes and spoke quietly, because he did not like the echo of the words in his head.
‘My son. When such a work is ordained, it is put into the mind of a, of a man. That’s a terrible thing. I’m only learning now, how terrible it is. It’s a refiner’s fire. The man knows a little perhaps of the purpose, but nothing of the cost — why can’t they keep quiet out there? Why don’t they stand quietly and wait? No. You and I were chosen to do this thing together. It’s a great glory. I see now it’ll destroy us of course. What are we, after all? Only I tell you this, Roger, with the whole strength of my soul. The thing can be built and will be built, in the very teeth of Satan. You’ll build it because nobody else can. They laugh at me, I think; and they’ll probably laugh at you. Let them laugh. It’s for them, and their children. But only you and I, my son, my friend, when we’ve done tormenting ourselves and each other, will know what stones and beams and lead and mortar went into it. Do you understand?’