Goose of Hermogenes (12 page)

When I arrived at the massive castellated gatehouse once more, I became aware of the Anchorite’s vigilant figure half-hidden at an upper window, but I knew that nothing now could hold me back. I darted towards the square of the archway, but to pass through this, I found that I had to enter the cage of glazed compartments which make up a swing-door; though this was no ordinary swing-door. It contained more than the usual four compartments; and then it was used as a kind of roulette – my sisters were placed one in each section, and all had to run round inside so long as the pivot went on turning.

We were dressed in carnival costume, or ballet-dresses perhaps; and it was my section which remained standing opposite the entrance when the pivot ceased to swing. Rohan was waiting outside.

‘You again!’ he exclaimed resentfully. ‘Why can’t I have someone else for a change,’ he grumbled casting a longing eye towards one of my twin-sisters, a fluffy-haired brunette, dressed in blue silk, lace petticoats and pink bows, who was standing on her points in the compartment next after mine.

I murmured something about fate, intended as an apology; and Rohan picked me up and slung me over his back like a goose. I felt as if I were being held by the neck in a fox’s jaws, but I suppose he did not quite do that.

We started up the road, and soon passed a small red house with what seemed like a one-storeyed outhouse built against it. Along the slanting roof of this a game-bird was suspended face downwards.

‘Look at the pheasant!’ I cried, by way of diverting him.

And indeed, it was worth looking at. It was very large, very red and bright; and the scales on its neck hardly seemed like feathers, they were so huge, separate and metallic in colour. The tail was long, with a white plume running down each side to the tip. I wondered if the bird were quite dead.

Rohan was interested. He turned it over on its back, stretching it out on a bank of sloping grass. Then we saw that it was not a pheasant. It was as big as a woman, and seemed to have a woman’s face, though this was difficult to determine because the whole head was covered with an opaque membrane the colour of some ripe citrous fruit. Beneath this lay the impression of wide cheek-bones, profound sockets and a beak like an eagle’s. We could discern that the beak was open, for its sharpness made the brilliant yellow membrane almost transparent. The veil covered the creature’s wing-shoulders, and fell on the breast, which was divided in the centre, like that of a woman or a bird of prey. I felt that bat-like hands were folded below; and lower still glowed the vivid plumage we had seen before, copper-green and copper-red.

The eagle lay perfectly still, scarcely breathing and apparently asleep. A voice from the air around seemed to tell me to leave it undisturbed, and that one day it would awake from its creative trance.

Immediately I had left the penumbra of my Uncle’s park the air, as yet scarcely touched by morning, came to my throat with a fresher draught, and environned me with a more translucid grey. I ran on now with little sense of direction, borne forward by early breezes that seemed to me the very breath of liberty, and so buoyant that they might have been blowing directly off the sea. I had not shed my clothes with my jewels; yet racing along, my feet barely touching the moss of the woodland ride, I had the sensation of being naked and immersed in some bracing element, as though nothing came between my skin and the soft yet potent air.

When I regained the main island it was still very early; and fastening the coracle to the mole from which I had set forth, I made my way to the big deserted house. Ever since my mother had left it, and had ceased to live with my father, I had heard nothing of how he was; and I now began to wonder: How is he managing alone? He never used to be much good at making arrangements for himself. I decided to visit him.

It was only just light when I penetrated the house and mounted to the top-floor; my father had barely finished his bath, and when I called to him he came out immediately into the passage, without dressing, to meet me. This was most unusual for him, as he had never been addicted to nudism.

‘How are you?’ I cried.

‘Very well indeed,’ he answered. He seemed delighted to see me and we hugged and kissed. I then suggested as tactfully as I could that he might put on some clothes; and this he did, without apparent embarrassment, as we descended the staircase to the lower floors. He remarked on the amount of jewellery I was wearing; and glancing down suddenly at my gleaming wrists and fingers, I was forced to admit that indeed, for a morning
toilette,
it was perhaps rather much. I saw, too, with astonishment, that what I now wore appeared to be the very trinkets which I had cast from me at my Uncle’s threshold.

Suddenly the forlorn aspect of the house seemed to strike my father – the carpetless stairs, the uncurtained windows, the bare wood of the floors. He looked about him uneasily as we approached the main hall, and seemed, for the first time since his family’s absence, to be taking in his surroundings.

‘He does not know he is dead,’ I thought. ‘Shall I have to tell him?’

But this was not necessary.

‘Where are the furnishings?’ he asked. ‘Why all this emptiness?’

‘Don’t you realise, father,’ I replied gently, pressing his arm with a closer touch, ‘that we are no longer living here?’

I paused, then turned for some response; but my father had vanished, utterly melted away, leaving only his old green suit hanging over my arm.

I went into the conservatory-room that led off the rear of the entrance-hall. It was circular with much glass, some white, some tinted with various colours, and was now empty but for the built-in seat running round below the windows. Outside, the encroaching leaves of the garden-shrubs were visible. I waited here for a few minutes perfectly quiet; but my father did not return. Only in the atmosphere of the room there seemed to linger a faint distillation, but whether of sound or colour I could not tell.

I left the conservatory, let myself out of the front door and made towards one of the side-entrances to Che garden. Here the vegetation had become tropical, recalling that of the antipodes; leaves like open umbrellas swayed above my head and showers of warm drops fell through the air. The very light seemed to have passed through a filter of foliage, and the exit was clogged with unaccustomed tepid luxuriance.

There was a low earthy rampart surrounding the garden and the soil of this had grown volcanic, as it did from time to time – at least, so I gathered from some passers-by in the lane outside. Warm fountains the colour of port-wine were jetting through the earth, fertilising it to this abundant growth.

Following the lane, I reached the top of an incline from which I could see the mountainy country to the east; and towards this I set my profile. The region was far, but even as I looked its pencilled summits were touched by the first auroral glow.

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First published by Peter Owen Ltd 1961

© Ithell Colquhoun 1961
Introduction © Eric Ratcliffe 2003
This ebook edition 2014

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