The Quickening Maze - Adam Foulds [36]
In vain; a favourable speed
Ruffle thy mirror’d mast, and lead
Thro’ prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplex
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright
As our pure love, thro’ early light
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all you lights around, above;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,
My friend, the brother of my love;
My Arthur, whom I shall not see
Till all my widow’d race be run;
Dear as the mother to the son,
More than my brothers are to me.
John stood in a gold cloud of his own breath. Dawn. A heavy low sun seemingly at head-height. He couldn’t see clearly. His left eye looked through a knife slit, his vision narrowed between a pinkish mist. One side of his body was numb. The cold air was flowing into his mouth, making his teeth tingle. He felt with his fingers: his lip was swollen up into a sneer that exposed his bite. And where was he? Some sort of encampment. He wondered how he’d got there. It had something to do, didn’t it, with his being a prize fighter. Had he fought a bout there? That looked like the ashes of a night’s fire under the new-fallen snow.There were caravans and horses. Gypsies must have put on the bout. He checked his knuckles for grazes and swelling. They looked good. The trees swung their billy clubs all the right the wind shoved have you the pluck Old Jack Randall will Jack Randall must have the pluck to come up to the scratch most famous fighter of them all must have dusted them out pretty quick! Old Jack Randall would have wouldn’t he what with the strength in his arms no question he stood up straight Jack Randall. He bounced up and down, threw out a few punches, though his head ached. He was ready to go again with whoever would challenge him. Jack Randall set off to walk back to . . . the other place, whatever it was - his place of lodging. He knew the way there through the woods.
With the new snow flattening sounds he felt almost deaf or dreaming. His boots crumped down into it. Two crows cranked past with their slow labouring stroke when a wind caught them and swept them round like a finger turning a clock hand. They rowed hard forwards and disappeared away to the side.
He punched the air again.That’ll teach them.That’ll teach them to try Old Jack Randall in the ring.
Back in his room, Jack Randall tried to tidy himself before slipping out again. He wetted and wiped his face. Without a mirror, he consulted his reflection in the window to see how damaged he was, pulling the curtain behind him to deepen the image. When he saw himself he laughed. His smile was wide, weird, undulating because of the flare of his lip. This made him smile more. His battered eye disappeared, closed behind a soft pink vulva of swelling that felt warm to the touch.At least he could neaten his hair and clothes. He scooped water onto his head and combed.
Margaret was standing in her favourite spot along the ground-floor corridor when she saw him walking towards her.This place was a small rounded recess with a high circular window so that her thoughts were accompanied by the sombre grading of the winter light through the day. The wounded man walked towards her, half-hiding his face, feeling his way with one hand skimming along the whitewashed wall. He was short, shabby, his face multicoloured and horrifying. Then, as in a play, she saw the doctor see him and call out, ‘John! John. Where are you going?’
Jack didn’t stop. Matthew Allen had to run after him and catch at his arm. John tried to whisk his arm away. Allen caught at him again and turned him around. ‘John. John, good Lord, what has happened to you?’
Again Jack tried to whip his arm free. Doing so, he struck Dr Allen lightly on his temple.Allen then lunged for him and held him in a hugging restraint, his arms pinned to his sides, Allen’s hands locked together, squeezing into the softness of his belly.
‘Unhand me! Unhand me! Blackguard, I’ll knock you down. You think you’re