The Madman =========== Sorry I had wasted so much time in crowded places I drove until the road dwindled into uselessness Then left the car and walked the rest of the way On a stony path that God had put there On the Eighth Day of Creation (The one we don't hear much about) Then there was the cliff, and the sea Three hundred feet below, blue green white Its ceaseless waves doing their best To beat the island back And keep it from encroaching further On sea-god Manannan's (their Lord's) domain. Behind a boulder I found a patch of soft grass And sat there to add the sound of my whistle To the ocean roar. Wheeling seabirds laughed at my presumption. One braver or more curious than his fellows Had managed, despite the gusting winds, To land not far from my sheltered place And with dignity and pretended unconcern His tilted head and bright eye Watched me play...I felt grateful For his interest (though he was, I knew, Always ready to take quickly to flight At anything he did not understand) And as I played for gull and for myself I noticed coming along another path A scarecrow, or, more likely, A thin man dressed raggedly in black. Up he came, slowly, over the brow of the hill: I watched, playing no music, as he came nearer (My audience of one had already spread white wings And gone to sing gull-songs with his friends) The man stopped fifty feet from where I sat And pointed at me, and smiled. - I heard the whistle, He said. - I was digging in the field down yonder On the other side of the hill where you can't see it. But I heard the whistle, and so I came here. He stated his arrival as a fact Whose meaning I should already understand. He stood where he had stopped, looking around from time to time And did not seem inclined to come closer Or to sit. He had a worried look. - My name is ... But in a sudden noisier gust of sea wind I couldn't catch his name. - Mine is Jim, I said for something to say. He nodded as if he had heard something important, Was silent, then spoke again - an explanation. - When I heard the music, I had to come, he said. - To make sure you were all right. No one ever comes here, and the music is a rare thing And I couldn't be sure of what I would find... He seemed to be waiting for me to reply. - I hope you liked the tunes, I said, but he shook his head. - It's the same as always, he replied. - It never changes No matter who plays it, you can't know it, You can't trust it, good or bad. I must have looked confused. He pointed to his ear and made a movement with his arm To blame the wind and sea. Then he approached a few steps closer And crouched down, glancing anxiously to right and left As if preparing to share some great secret. - No, music can't be trusted, he said with finality. You players think you know it, but you don't... You can't. His blue eyes stared into my face. I began to be uncomfortable, And thought with regret of the car, hitherto unloved, Standing placid and uncaring amidst similar cattle At least a half-mile away. ...Are you afraid? he asked suddenly. - I'm not sure I know what you're talking about, I stammered. - Of course not, he said. - You are a player; I heard you from down below. You don't have to be afraid Because you didn't see it. I am the one who has to be afraid. - Of me? I asked. - Afraid of me? - No, afraid of the music. I fear not man, nor God, Nor loud angry seas, nor holes in boats, nor fairies Nor, most times, women's tears. But I say it to you and your whistle: I fear music And music only. And as if to prove the truth of what he was saying He picked up a stone And running to the very edge of the cliff Threw it into the wind as far as it would go. I covered my eyes and pressed against the boulder; He saw me, and laughed. - We all have our own fears, he said. - Yours perhaps is a fear of great heights; my mother (God rest her) was afraid of mice; my sister Lived in London and slept always with a light on. My fear is music. He had seated himself next to me in the shelter Of the great rock. It had begun to rain, Sweet drops falling from grey sky To soften the churning sea's salt spray... - When I was a very small boy, he said, My mother sent me to learn music. I had to go Into the next parish where the teacher lived And every Tuesday after school I would bring my whistle And sit with the other students, and play little tunes, And listen to the teacher talk about music. Like yourself, she was not from these parts; She could not know our ways, or our fears, And so she would speak to us always About the ways music could take hold of you And capture you, and ensnare you, and transport you... He shuddered as he spoke; I knew it was not from cold or wet Or any common fear. - We were children, he said softly, but we saw The look in her eye when she spoke And, simple children from a simple place, We did not understand. We knew only The overheard stories told by the old people Around the fire on stormy winter nights Stories that used the same words... The teacher was a kindly soul, but a fool - She had only to say to us: It is from God. Perhaps she did not know herself... One evening I walked home after my lesson Hot with a fever and full of dread. I dreamed a horrible dream that night: A dream filled with images That made me want to scream (But of course I could make no sound): I was in the place of the teacher's telling A victim, captured, ensnared, transported There were fences, five-barred, like musical staves Formed of rusted dirty metal hot to the touch: I was trapped within them like a beast in a shambles. The thick busy black notes were deadly insects Clinging malevolent and hateful to the fence Ready to puncture and poison with sharp waving tails Anyone foolish enough to approach... Other notes were white Like statues' eyes, empty and staring And terrifying: they could watch you, Know what you were doing, And why. In my dream the clef (you see I remember) Was at one end of the fence, a big twisted thing Curling and uncurling about itself like Hell's own snake With black bright eyes and darting tongue Insinuating itself between the lines of the stave And at the other end the double bar Had become two huge sticks buried deep in the ground To hold the fence and its prisoners in place Two dots like two bloodstains From hands that had tried to grasp, and failed. ...I woke two days later. My mother said That I had been close to death from the fever, And that I had babbled incoherently While my worried family said the Rosary To ask the Blessed Mother for my healing. They could catch some of my words - The priest said I was talking about music. But I said things after I woke, and long after that, That made them wonder about me... The thin man rose from beside me And walked close to the cliff edge once again. ...But you see, they were right, he said, Speaking less now to me Than to whatever his blue eyes could see In the wild infinity beyond the cliff. - I was babbling about music, but some way or another I came to realize it had been a vision, not a dream. So then the fear of music came upon me. I felt that, in that night's seeing, I had seen into its heart. I knew its nature now, knew its powers, Knew what it was like to be its victim. - This is what happens, he said, Counting out the points of his argument On the fingers of his raised right hand. - First it comes smiling, and you run to meet it To embrace it like your first and only love But you soon find the embrace Is far from a lover's caress And more like the grip of a drowning man; Then you realize too late That it is to be feared, more perhaps Than death itself: Death takes you once, and kisses you, and releases you To whatever follows; But music takes you and keeps you Enchanted, enslaved, behind its fences Begging mercy from insects and snakes As long as it cares to keep you there... He hardly seemed to breathe; He did not seem to realize that his right hand Had become a tight trembling fist. At last he turned to look at me A look pleading for understanding. The sky had grown dark, the rain heavier now. He knelt on both knees next to me As in a confessional. - I pray each day for deafness, he murmured at last: For the power not to hear, like that Greek sailor I met once in a pub in Liscannor Who told me that once in a far place and time He had stopped his ears with wax to avoid the evil songs, The tempting songs that called then and call now: Be what I demand! ...Then suddenly he leaped up. Grabbing my whistle lying mute on the wet stones He ran to the cliff and hurled it over the edge - It flashed once in the dying light and disappeared. In the rising wind, I feared to leave My little safe space behind the boulder To follow him and ask a question. A scream of laughter split the air behind the hill And answered what I did not ask: - You could not save yourself; I have saved you. And in another moment, I was alone. I tried to run; the wind was gathering strength. There was just light enough to find the stony path.