To tell the truth, however, the prospect causes me little worry. It is obvious to me now that the origins of the Hubble Effect are more than physical. When I stumbled out of the forest into an army cordon ten miles from Maynard two days after seeing the helpless phantom that had once been Charles Marquand, the gold cross clutched in my arms, I was determined never to visit the Everglades again. By one of those ludicrous inversions of logic, I found myself, far from acclaimed as a hero, standing summary trial before a military court and charged with looting. The gold cross had apparently been stripped of its jewels, and in vain did I protest that these vanished stones had been the price of my survival. At last I was rescued by the embassy in Washington under the plea of diplomatic immunity, but my suggestion that a patrol equipped with jewelled crosses should enter the forest and attempt to save the priest and Charles Marquand met with little success. Despite my protests I was sent to San Juan to recuperate.
The intention of my superiors was that I should be cut off from all memory of my experience – perhaps they sensed some small but significant change in me. Each night, however, the fractured disc of the Echo satellite passes overhead, illuminating the midnight sky like a silver chandelier. And I am convinced that the sun itself has begun to effloresce. At sunset, when its disc is veiled by the crimson dust, it seems to be crossed by a distinctive latticework, a vast portcullis which will one day spread outwards to the planets and the stars, halting them in their courses.
I know now that I shall return to the Everglades. As the example of that brave apostate priest who gave the cross to me illustrates, there is an immense reward to be found in that frozen forest. There in the Everglades the transfiguration of all living and inanimate forms occurs before our eyes, the gift of immortality a direct consequence of the surrender by each of us of our own physical and temporal identity. However apostate we may be in this world, there perforce we become apostles of the prismatic sun.
So, when my convalescence is complete and I return to Washington, I shall seize an opportunity to visit the Florida peninsula again with one of the many scientific expeditions. It should not be too difficult to arrange my escape and then I shall return to the solitary church in that enchanted world, where by day fantastic birds fly through the petrified forest and jewelled alligators glitter like heraldic salamanders on the banks of the crystalline rivers, and where by night the illuminated man races among the trees, his arms like golden cartwheels and his head like a spectral crown.
1964
THE DELTA AT SUNSET
Each evening, when the dense powdery dusk lay over the creeks and drained mud-basins of the delta, the snakes would come out on to the beaches. Half-asleep on the wicker stretcher-chair below the awning of his tent, Charles Gifford watched their sinuous forms coiling and uncoiling as they wound their way up the slopes. In the opaque blue light the dusk swept like a fading searchlight over the damp beaches, and the interlocked bodies shone with an almost phosphorescent brilliance.
The nearest creeks were three hundred yards from the camp, but for some reason the appearance of the snakes always coincided with Gifford’s recovery from his evening fever. As this receded, carrying with it the familiar diorama of reptilian phantoms, he would sit up in the stretcher-chair and find the snakes crawling across the beaches, almost as if they had materialized from his dreams. Involuntarily he would search the sand around the tent for any signs of their damp skins.
‘The strange thing is they always come out at the same time,’ Gifford said to the Indian head-boy who had emerged from the mess tent and was now covering him with a blanket. ‘One minute there’s nothing there, and the next thousands of them are swarming all over the mud.’
‘You not cold, sir?’ the Indian asked.
‘Look at them now, before the light goes. It’s really fantastic. There must be a sharply defined threshold –’ He tried to lift his pale, bearded face above the hillock formed by the surgical cradle over his foot, and snapped: ‘All right, all right!’
‘Doctor?’ The head-boy, a thirty-year-old Indian named Mechippe, continued to straighten the cradle, his limpid eyes, set in a face of veined and weathered teak, watching Gifford.
‘I said get out of the damned way!’ Leaning weakly on one elbow, Gifford watched the last light fade across the winding causeways of the delta, taking with it a final image of the snakes. Each evening, as the heat mounted with the advancing summer, they came out in greater numbers, as if aware of the lengthening periods of his fever.
‘Sir, I get more blanket for you?’
‘No, for God’s sake.’ Gifford’s thin shoulders shivered in the dusk air, but he ignored the discomfort. He looked down at his inert, corpse-like body below the blanket, examining it with far more detachment than he had felt for the unknown Indians dying in the makeshift WHO field hospital at Taxcol. At least there was a passive repose about the Indians, a sense of the still intact integrity of flesh and spirit, if anything reinforced by the failure of one of the partners. It was this paradigm of fatalism which Gifford would have liked to achieve – even the most wretched native, identifying himself with the irrevocable flux of nature, had bridged a greater span of years than the longest-lived European or American with his obsessive time-consciousness, cramming so-called significant experiences into his life like a glutton. By contrast, Gifford realized, he himself had merely thrown aside his own body, divorcing it like some no longer useful partner in a functional business marriage. So marked a lack of loyalty depressed him.
He tapped his bony loins. ‘It’s not this, Mechippe, that ties us to mortality, but our confounded egos.’ He smiled slyly at the head-boy. ‘Louise would appreciate that, don’t you think?’
The head-boy was watching a refuse fire being raised behind the mess tent. He looked down sharply at the supine figure on the stretcher-chair, his half-savage eyes glinting like arrow heads in the oily light of the burning brush. ‘Sir? You want –?’
‘Forget it,’ Gifford told him. ‘Bring two whisky sodas. And some more chairs. Where’s Mrs Gifford?’
He glanced up at Mechippe when he failed to reply. Briefly their eyes met, in an instant of absolute clarity. Fifteen years earlier, when Gifford had come to the delta with his first archaeological expedition, Mechippe had been one of the junior camp-followers. Now he was in the late middle age of the Indian, the notches on his cheeks lost in the deep hatchwork of lines and scars, wise in the tent-lore of the visitors.
‘Miss’ Gifford – resting,’ he said cryptically. In an attempt to alter the tempo and direction of their dialogue, he added: ‘I tell Mr Lowry, then bring whiskies and hot towel, Doctor.’
‘Okay, Mechippe.’ Lying back with an ironic smile, Gifford listened to the head-boy’s footsteps move away softly through the sand. The muted sounds of the camp stirred around him – the cooling plash of water in the shower stall, the soft interchanges of the Indians, the whining of a desert dog waiting to approach the refuse dump – and he sank downwards into the thin tired body stretched out in front of him like a collection of bones in a carpet bag, rekindling the fading senses of touch and pressure in his limbs.
In the moonlight, the white beaches of the delta glistened like banks of luminous chalk, the snakes festering on the slope like the worshippers of a midnight sun.
Half an hour later they drank their whiskies together in the dark tinted air. Revived by Mechippe’s massage, Charles Gifford sat upright in the stretcher-chair, gesturing with his glass. The whisky had momentarily cleared his brain; usually he was reluctant to discuss the snakes in his wife’s presence, let alone Lowry’s, but the marked increase in their numbers seemed important enough to mention. There was also the mildly malicious pleasure – less amusing now than it had been – of seeing Louise shudder at any mention of the snakes.
‘What is so unusual,’ he explained, ‘is the way they emerge on to the banks at the same time. There must be a precise level of luminosity, an exact number of photons, to which they all respond – presumably an i
nnate trigger.’
Dr Richard Lowry, Gifford’s assistant and since his accident the acting leader of the expedition, watched Gifford uncomfortably from the edge of his canvas chair, rotating his glass below his long nose. He had been placed downwind from the loose bandages swaddling Gifford’s foot (little revenges of this kind, however childish, alone sustained Gifford’s interest in the people around him), and carefully averted his face as he asked: ‘But why the sudden increase in numbers? A month ago there was barely a snake in sight?’
‘Dick, please!’ Louise Gifford turned an expression of martyred weariness on Lowry. ‘Must we?’
‘There’s an obvious answer,’ Gifford said to Lowry. ‘During the summer the delta drains, and begins to look like the half-empty lagoons that were here 50 million years ago. The giant amphibians had died out, and the small reptiles were the dominant species. These snakes are probably carrying around what is virtually a coded internal landscape, a picture of the Paleocene as sharp as our own memories of New York and London.’ He turned to his wife, the shadows cast by the distant refuse fire hollowing his cheeks. ‘What’s the matter, Louise? Don’t say you can’t remember New York and London?’
‘I don’t know whether I can or not.’ She pushed a lock of fraying blonde hair off her forehead. ‘I wish you wouldn’t think about the snakes all the time.’
‘Well, I’m beginning to understand them. I was always baffled by the way they’d appear at the same time. Besides, there’s nothing else to do. I don’t want to sit here staring at that damned Toltec ruin of yours.’
He gestured towards the low ridge of sandstone, its profile illuminated against the white moonlit clouds, which marked the margins of the alluvial bench half a mile from the camp. Before Gifford’s accident their chairs had faced the ruined terrace city emerging from the thistles which covered the ridge. But Gifford had tired of staring all day at the crumbling galleries and colonnades where his wife and Lowry worked together. He told Mechippe to dismantle the tent and turn it through ninety degrees, so that he could watch the last light of the sunset fading over the western delta. The burning refuse fires they now faced provided at least a few wisps of motion. Gazing for hours across the endless creeks and mud-banks, whose winding outlines became more and more serpentine as the summer drought persisted and the level of the water table fell, he had one evening discovered the snakes.
‘Surely it’s simply a shortage of dissolved oxygen,’ Lowry commented. He noticed Gifford regarding him with an expression of critical distaste, and added: ‘Jung believes the snake is primarily a symbol of the unconscious, and that its appearance always heralds a crisis in the psyche.’
‘I suppose I accept that,’ Charles Gifford said. With rather forced laughter he added, shaking his foot in the cradle: ‘I have to. Don’t I, Louise?’ Before his wife, who was watching the fires with a distracted expression, could reply he went on: ‘Though in fact I disagree with Jung. For me the snake is a symbol of transformation. Every evening at sunset the great lagoons of the Paleocene are re-created here, not only for the snakes but for you and I too, if we care to look. Not for nothing is the snake a symbol of wisdom.’
Richard Lowry frowned doubtfully into his glass. ‘I’m not convinced, sir. It was primitive man who had to assimilate events in the external world to his own psyche.’
‘Absolutely right,’ Gifford rejoined. ‘How else is nature meaningful, unless she illustrates some inner experience? The only real landscapes are the internal ones, or the external projections of them, such as this delta.’ He passed his empty glass to his wife. ‘Agree, Louise? Though perhaps you take a Freudian view of the snakes?’
This thin jibe, uttered with the cold humour which had become characteristic of Gifford, brought their conversation to a halt. Restlessly, Lowry looked at his watch, eager to be away from Gifford and his pathetic boorishness. Gifford, a cold smirk on his lips, waited for Lowry to catch his eye; by a curious paradox his dislike of his assistant was encouraged by the latter’s reluctance to retaliate, rather than by the still ambiguous but crystallizing relationship between Lowry and Louise. Lowry’s meticulous neutrality and good manners seemed to Gifford an attempt to preserve a world on which Gifford had turned his back, that world where there were no snakes on the beaches and where events moved on a single plane of time like the blurred projection of a three-dimensional object by a defective camera obscura.
Lowry’s politeness was also, of course, an attempt to shield himself and Louise from Gifford’s waspish tongue. Like Hamlet taking advantage of his madness to insult and cross-examine anyone at will, Gifford often used the exhausted half-lucid interval after his fever subsided to make his more pointed comments. As he emerged from the penumbral shallows, the looming figures of his wife and assistant still surrounded by the rotating mandalas he saw in his dreams, he would give full rein to his tortured humour. That in this way he was helping his wife and Lowry towards an inevitable climax only encouraged Gifford.
His long farewell to Louise, protracted now for so many years, at last seemed feasible, even if only part of the greater goodbye, the vast leave-taking that Gifford was about to embark upon. The fifteen years of their marriage had been little more than a single frustrated farewell, a search for a means to an end which their own strengths of character had always prevented.
Looking up at Louise’s sun-grazed but still handsome profile, at her fading blonde hair swept back off her angular shoulders, Gifford realized that his dislike of her was in no way personal, but merely part of the cordial distaste he felt for almost the entire human race. And even this deeply ingrained misanthropy was only a reflection of his own undying self-contempt. If there were few people whom he had ever liked, there were, equally, few moments during which he had ever liked himself. His entire life as an archaeologist, from his early adolescence when he had first collected fossil ammonites from a nearby limestone outcropping, was an explicit attempt to return to the past and discover the sources of his self-loathing.
‘Do you think they’ll send an aeroplane?’ Louise asked after breakfast the next morning. ‘There was a noise then …’
‘I doubt it,’ Lowry said. He gazed up at the empty sky. ‘We didn’t ask for one. The landing field at Taxcol is disused. During the summer the harbour drains and everyone moves up-coast.’
‘There’ll be a doctor, surely? Not everyone will have gone?’
‘Yes, there’s a doctor. There’s one permanently attached to the port authority.’
‘A drunken fool,’ Gifford interjected. ‘I refuse to let him touch me with his poxy hands. Forget about the doctor, Louise. Even if someone is prepared to come out here, how do you think he’ll manage it?’
‘But Charles –’
Gifford gestured irritably at the glistening mudbanks. ‘The whole delta is draining like a dirty bath, no one is going to risk a stiff dose of malaria just to put a splint on my ankle. Anyway, that boy Mechippe sent is probably still hanging around here somewhere.’
‘But Mechippe insisted he was reliable.’ Louise looked down helplessly at her husband propped against the back of the stretcher-chair. ‘Dick, I wish you could have gone with him. It’s only fifty miles. You would have been there by now.’
Lowry nodded uneasily. ‘Well, I didn’t think … I’m sure everything will be all right. How is the leg, sir?’
‘Just dandy.’ Gifford had been staring out across the delta. He noticed Lowry peering down at him with a long puckered face. ‘What’s the matter, Richard? Does the smell offend you?’ Suddenly exasperated, he snapped: ‘Do me a favour and take a walk, dear chap.’
‘What –?’ Lowry stared at him uncertainly. ‘Of course, Doctor.’
Gifford watched Lowry’s neatly groomed figure walk away stiffly among the tents. ‘He’s awfully correct, isn’t he? But he doesn’t know how to take an insult yet. I’ll see that he gets plenty of practice.’
Louise slowly shook her head. ‘Do you have to, Charles? Without him we’d be in rather a spot,
you know. I don’t think you’re being very fair.’
‘Fair?’ Gifford repeated the word with a grimace. ‘What are you talking about? For God’s sake, Louise.’
‘All right then,’ his wife replied patiently. ‘I don’t think you should blame Richard for what’s happened.’
‘I don’t. Is that what your dear Dick suggests? Now that this thing is beginning to smell he’s trying to throw his guilt back on to me.’
‘He is not –’
Gifford petulantly thumped the wicker elbow rest. ‘He damned well is!’ He gazed up darkly at his wife, his thin twisted mouth framed by the rim of beard. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, you will too by the time this thing is finished.’
‘Charles, please …’
‘Who cares, anyway?’ Gifford lay back weakly for a moment, and then, as he recovered, a curious feeling of light-headed and almost euphoric calm coming over him, began again: ‘Dr Richard Lowry. How he loves his doctorate. I wouldn’t have had the nerve at his age. A third-rate PhD for work that I did for him, and he styles himself “Doctor”.’
‘So do you.’
‘Don’t be a fool. I can remember when at least two Chairs were offered to me.’
‘But you couldn’t degrade yourself by accepting them,’ his wife commented, a trace of irony in her voice.
‘No, I could not,’ Gifford attested vehemently. ‘Do you know what Cambridge is like, Louise? It’s packed with Richard Lowrys! Besides, I had a far better idea. I married a rich wife. She was charming, beautiful, and in a slightly ambiguous way respected my moody brilliance, but above all she was rich.’