Briefing for a Descent Into Hell - Doris May Lessing [13]
There now, there’s the shore. And now more than ever we must hold our course to true. There are no rocks, shoals or reefs here porpoise, which could stub your delicate nose or take strips of blubber off your sleek black back, but there is the shining coast and of all the dangers of the Southern Current this one is worst, that if we keep our eyes on that pretty shore wishing we were on it, then the current will sweep us on in our cycle of forgetting around and around and around and around again back to the coasts of Africa with hummocks of Southern ice for company, so hold on now porpoise and keep your mind on your work, which is me, my landfall, but never let yourself dream of that silver sand and the deep forests there for if you do, your strength will ebb and you’ll slide away southwards like a dead or a dying fish.
There. Yes. Here we are, close in, and the thunder of the surf is in us. But close your ears, porpoise, don’t listen or look, let your thoughts be all of a strong purposeful haul. In. And in. With the wash of the southdragging current cold on your left flank. In. Yes, and I’m not looking either dear porpoise, for if I did not reach that shore now and if we did have to slide away falling South and around again and again and again then I think I’d ask you porpoise to treat me as men treat porpoises and carve me up for your curiosity. But there, closer. Yes, closer. We are so close now that the trees of the beach and the lifting land beyond the beach are hanging over us as trees hang over a tame inland river. And we’re in. But will you come with me, splitting your soft fat black shining tail to make legs to walk on, strolling up with me to the Highlands that are there? No, well then, goodbye porpoise, goodbye, slide back to your playful sea and be happy there, live, breathe, until the poison man makes for all living creatures finds you and kills you as you swim. And now I roll off your friendly back, thank you, thank you kind fish, and I find my feet steady under me on a crunching sand with the tide’s fringe washing cool about my ankles.
And now leaving the sea where I have been around and around for so many centuries my mind is ringed with Time like the deposits on shells or the fall of years on tree trunks, I step up on the dry salty sand, with a shake of my whole body like a wet dog.
It must have been about ten in the morning. The sun was shining full on my back at midmorning position. The sky was cloudless, a full deep blue. I was standing on a wide beach of white sand that stretched on either side for a couple of miles before curving out of sight behind rocky headlands. Before me, a thick forest came down to the sand’s edge. A light wind blew off the sea and kept the branches in a lively movement. The leaves sparkled. So did the sea. The sands glittered. It was a scene of great calm and plenty and reassurance, but at the same time, there was a confusion of light. I was pleased to step out of the sands’ glare into the cool of the trees. The undergrowth was low, and it was easy to walk. From the beach I had seen that the land lifted fast to some heights that seemed as if they might be rock-fringed plateaux. I was looking for a path as I walked Westwards under the great trees, and at last I saw a sandy track that seemed to lead to the high land in front. It was a calm and soothing walk. The pounding of the surf made a heavy silence here. Above, the branches held a weight of silence that was sharpened by a thousand birds. And soon I heard in front of me a thundering as loud as the surf which was now three or four miles behind. I was on the banks of a river which cascaded down through rocks to crash into a lower wider stream which rolled glossily away to join the sea. The track ran upwards beside the stream, and became a narrow footpath between rocks by the cataract.