crow. So loud, it woke the peasant.
At the same time, at the same hour before dawn, on the same morning, a
man awoke from a long sleep in which he was tied up. He woke numb and
cold, inside a carved hole in the rock. Through all the long sleep his
body had been full of hurt, and it was still full of hurt. He did not
open his eyes. Yet he knew that he was awake, and numb, and cold, and
rigid, and full of hurt, and tied up. His face was banded with cold
bands, his legs were bandaged together. Only his hands were loose.
He could move if he wanted: he knew that. But he had no want. Who would
want to come back from the dead? A deep, deep nausea stirred in him, at
the premonition of movement. He resented already the fact of the strange,
incalculable moving that had already taken place in him: the moving back
into consciousness. He had not wished it. He had wanted to stay outside,
in the place where even memory is stone dead.
But now, something had returned to him, like a returned letter, and in
that return he lay overcome with a sense of nausea. Yet suddenly his
hands moved. They lifted up, cold, heavy and sore. Yet they lifted up, to
drag away the cloth from his face, and push at the shoulder–bands. Then
they fell again, cold, heavy, numb, and sick with having moved even so
much, unspeakably unwilling to move further.
With his face cleared and his shoulders free, he lapsed again, and lay
dead, resting on the cold nullity of being dead. It was the most
desirable. And almost, he had it complete: the utter cold nullity of
being outside.
Yet when he was most nearly gone, suddenly, driven by an ache at the
wrists, his hands rose and began pushing at the bandages of his knees,
his feet began to stir, even while his breast lay cold and dead still.
And at last, the eyes opened. On to the dark. The same dark! Yet perhaps
there was a pale chink, of the all–disturbing light, prising open the
pure dark. He could not lift his head. The eyes closed. And again it was
finished.
Then suddenly he leaned up, and the great world reeled. Bandages fell
away. And narrow walls of rock closed upon him, and gave the new anguish
of imprisonment. There were chinks of light. With a wave of strength that
came from revulsion, he leaned forward, in that narrow well of rock, and
leaned frail hands on the rock near the chinks of light.
Strength came from somewhere, from revulsion; there was a crash and a
wave of light, and the dead man was crouching in his lair, facing the
animal onrush of light. Yet it was hardly dawn. And the strange, piercing
keenness of daybreak's sharp breath was on him. It meant full awakening.
Slowly, slowly he crept down from the cell of rock with the caution of
the bitterly wounded. Bandages and linen and perfume fell away, and he
crouched on the ground against the wall of rock, to recover oblivion. But
he saw his hurt feet touching the earth again, with unspeakable pain, the
earth they had meant to touch no more, and he saw his thin legs that had
died, and pain unknowable, pain like utter bodily disillusion, filled him
so full that he stood up, with one torn hand on the ledge of the tomb.
To be back! To be back again, after all that! He saw the linen
swathing–bands fallen round his dead feet, and stooping, he picked them
up, folded them, and laid them back in the rocky cavity from which he had
emerged. Then he took the perfumed linen sheet, wrapped it round him as a
mantle, and turned away, to the wanness of the chill dawn.
He was alone; and having died, was even beyond loneliness.
Filled still with the sickness of unspeakable disillusion, the man
stepped with wincing feet down the rocky slope, past the sleeping
soldiers, who lay wrapped in their woollen mantles under the wild
laurels. Silent, on naked scarred feet, wrapped in a white linen shroud,
he glanced down for a moment on the inert, heap–like bodies of the
soldiers. They were repulsive, a slow squalor of limbs, yet he felt a
certain compassion. He passed on
At the same time, at the same hour before dawn, on the same morning, a
man awoke from a long sleep in which he was tied up. He woke numb and
cold, inside a carved hole in the rock. Through all the long sleep his
body had been full of hurt, and it was still full of hurt. He did not
open his eyes. Yet he knew that he was awake, and numb, and cold, and
rigid, and full of hurt, and tied up. His face was banded with cold
bands, his legs were bandaged together. Only his hands were loose.
He could move if he wanted: he knew that. But he had no want. Who would
want to come back from the dead? A deep, deep nausea stirred in him, at
the premonition of movement. He resented already the fact of the strange,
incalculable moving that had already taken place in him: the moving back
into consciousness. He had not wished it. He had wanted to stay outside,
in the place where even memory is stone dead.
But now, something had returned to him, like a returned letter, and in
that return he lay overcome with a sense of nausea. Yet suddenly his
hands moved. They lifted up, cold, heavy and sore. Yet they lifted up, to
drag away the cloth from his face, and push at the shoulder–bands. Then
they fell again, cold, heavy, numb, and sick with having moved even so
much, unspeakably unwilling to move further.
With his face cleared and his shoulders free, he lapsed again, and lay
dead, resting on the cold nullity of being dead. It was the most
desirable. And almost, he had it complete: the utter cold nullity of
being outside.
Yet when he was most nearly gone, suddenly, driven by an ache at the
wrists, his hands rose and began pushing at the bandages of his knees,
his feet began to stir, even while his breast lay cold and dead still.
And at last, the eyes opened. On to the dark. The same dark! Yet perhaps
there was a pale chink, of the all–disturbing light, prising open the
pure dark. He could not lift his head. The eyes closed. And again it was
finished.
Then suddenly he leaned up, and the great world reeled. Bandages fell
away. And narrow walls of rock closed upon him, and gave the new anguish
of imprisonment. There were chinks of light. With a wave of strength that
came from revulsion, he leaned forward, in that narrow well of rock, and
leaned frail hands on the rock near the chinks of light.
Strength came from somewhere, from revulsion; there was a crash and a
wave of light, and the dead man was crouching in his lair, facing the
animal onrush of light. Yet it was hardly dawn. And the strange, piercing
keenness of daybreak's sharp breath was on him. It meant full awakening.
Slowly, slowly he crept down from the cell of rock with the caution of
the bitterly wounded. Bandages and linen and perfume fell away, and he
crouched on the ground against the wall of rock, to recover oblivion. But
he saw his hurt feet touching the earth again, with unspeakable pain, the
earth they had meant to touch no more, and he saw his thin legs that had
died, and pain unknowable, pain like utter bodily disillusion, filled him
so full that he stood up, with one torn hand on the ledge of the tomb.
To be back! To be back again, after all that! He saw the linen
swathing–bands fallen round his dead feet, and stooping, he picked them
up, folded them, and laid them back in the rocky cavity from which he had
emerged. Then he took the perfumed linen sheet, wrapped it round him as a
mantle, and turned away, to the wanness of the chill dawn.
He was alone; and having died, was even beyond loneliness.
Filled still with the sickness of unspeakable disillusion, the man
stepped with wincing feet down the rocky slope, past the sleeping
soldiers, who lay wrapped in their woollen mantles under the wild
laurels. Silent, on naked scarred feet, wrapped in a white linen shroud,
he glanced down for a moment on the inert, heap–like bodies of the
soldiers. They were repulsive, a slow squalor of limbs, yet he felt a
certain compassion. He passed on
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