that alone—had puzzled me as
a motive for so much desperation, since it was on Jedder’s land and he could control access as he liked. But this was a possession for the whole world. It would and ought to become a place of
pilgrimage.
All the same, I could only stare at Fosworthy’s agitation. People were certainly going to make a lot of undeserved money when the secret was out. But what about it?
‘It is not the paintings themselves,’ he said. ‘It is their profound religious significance.’
This was what Dunton had got hold of. He knew the beliefs from one or more patients; he knew, as many other local inhabitants must have, of meetings; he knew of the Apology for giving death, of
the fellowship with animals and the seemingly inconsistent obsession with hunting. But he had not the faintest suspicion that the small sect preserved an objective secret.
‘So this is what started you off?’
‘No, no!’ Fosworthy exclaimed as if I had doubted his power to think independently. ‘Our group had been in existence for some years. Many of us were impressed by the Quakers
who are influential in this part of the county. Excellent people, but too easily content!’
He meant, I suppose, the same criticism as when he described Dunton as limited. Nobody could be more sane and healthy than Quakers; but I can well see that the mystics and eccentrics still
inseparable for the Isle of Glass might find the admirable influence of the Friends too simple for them.
I gathered that Fosworthy, the Bank Manager and a handful of others had formed a mild vegetarian circle which used to contemplate the Unity of Life. That was the start. I wish I had listened
more patiently; but when his eyes began to shine and his gestures to be too emphatic, I could only see the abnormality.
‘Who found the cave?’ I asked.
‘Miss Filk. Her wretched Dobermans put up a fox which went to ground under a rock. Jedder, who is a keen rider to hounds, visited the place a week later to stop the earth, as I believe it
is called, and made his way inside. He kept quiet about it. He saw it as a mere curiosity which he would not allow to disturb his life. Another man would have thought only of the admission fees.
But Alan Jedder looks inward.’
I was about to say that he wouldn’t much like what he saw. But he probably did. No doubt he congratulated himself, like the rest of us, on being an individual of wonderful
potentialities.
‘Then one day, exploring alone, he found the paintings. He invited Aviston-Tresco and myself to see them. We all realised very soon that here was the synthesis we sought.’
The earnestness of the synthesis went on and on and I tried to take it in—since Aviston-Tresco’s opinions were responsible for my almost certain death—while mind and eyes were
day-dreaming among the lovely simplicities of human life twenty-five thousand years ago. I could see how the dying mammoth might stir the imagination of our crowded world in which an animal is a
pet or a potential carcass. The recognition between hunter and hunted of the divinity in each is lost to us.
Then the lights went out. I could not think for fear. After a few seconds they came on again. I thanked God, and tried to reconstruct causes, all unlikely, of a breakdown in so elementary a
system. They went out again, and stayed out.
‘I told you he would look for me,’ Fosworthy said.
I hoped he was right and that someone had come down through the hatch and switched off the lights to immobilise us, if either of us were alive. Assuming that a fuse had gone, we had no hope of
ever finding our way back along the passage. In theory it could be done by feeling for the wires, but I doubted if that would be possible in practice; there were too many openings and obstacles
where the line was overhead and out of reach. In darkness the passage was merely a random route, undiscoverable except by chance. Turn round twice and that was the end.
‘Where will he look?’ I
a motive for so much desperation, since it was on Jedder’s land and he could control access as he liked. But this was a possession for the whole world. It would and ought to become a place of
pilgrimage.
All the same, I could only stare at Fosworthy’s agitation. People were certainly going to make a lot of undeserved money when the secret was out. But what about it?
‘It is not the paintings themselves,’ he said. ‘It is their profound religious significance.’
This was what Dunton had got hold of. He knew the beliefs from one or more patients; he knew, as many other local inhabitants must have, of meetings; he knew of the Apology for giving death, of
the fellowship with animals and the seemingly inconsistent obsession with hunting. But he had not the faintest suspicion that the small sect preserved an objective secret.
‘So this is what started you off?’
‘No, no!’ Fosworthy exclaimed as if I had doubted his power to think independently. ‘Our group had been in existence for some years. Many of us were impressed by the Quakers
who are influential in this part of the county. Excellent people, but too easily content!’
He meant, I suppose, the same criticism as when he described Dunton as limited. Nobody could be more sane and healthy than Quakers; but I can well see that the mystics and eccentrics still
inseparable for the Isle of Glass might find the admirable influence of the Friends too simple for them.
I gathered that Fosworthy, the Bank Manager and a handful of others had formed a mild vegetarian circle which used to contemplate the Unity of Life. That was the start. I wish I had listened
more patiently; but when his eyes began to shine and his gestures to be too emphatic, I could only see the abnormality.
‘Who found the cave?’ I asked.
‘Miss Filk. Her wretched Dobermans put up a fox which went to ground under a rock. Jedder, who is a keen rider to hounds, visited the place a week later to stop the earth, as I believe it
is called, and made his way inside. He kept quiet about it. He saw it as a mere curiosity which he would not allow to disturb his life. Another man would have thought only of the admission fees.
But Alan Jedder looks inward.’
I was about to say that he wouldn’t much like what he saw. But he probably did. No doubt he congratulated himself, like the rest of us, on being an individual of wonderful
potentialities.
‘Then one day, exploring alone, he found the paintings. He invited Aviston-Tresco and myself to see them. We all realised very soon that here was the synthesis we sought.’
The earnestness of the synthesis went on and on and I tried to take it in—since Aviston-Tresco’s opinions were responsible for my almost certain death—while mind and eyes were
day-dreaming among the lovely simplicities of human life twenty-five thousand years ago. I could see how the dying mammoth might stir the imagination of our crowded world in which an animal is a
pet or a potential carcass. The recognition between hunter and hunted of the divinity in each is lost to us.
Then the lights went out. I could not think for fear. After a few seconds they came on again. I thanked God, and tried to reconstruct causes, all unlikely, of a breakdown in so elementary a
system. They went out again, and stayed out.
‘I told you he would look for me,’ Fosworthy said.
I hoped he was right and that someone had come down through the hatch and switched off the lights to immobilise us, if either of us were alive. Assuming that a fuse had gone, we had no hope of
ever finding our way back along the passage. In theory it could be done by feeling for the wires, but I doubted if that would be possible in practice; there were too many openings and obstacles
where the line was overhead and out of reach. In darkness the passage was merely a random route, undiscoverable except by chance. Turn round twice and that was the end.
‘Where will he look?’ I
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