The day before he died, my grandfather told me how he had been taken by his own grandfather up to the big house to witness an instance of magic. At the time, neither of them had any true understanding that this was what they had seen: rather, it seemed to them no more than one of the bizarre and pointless activities that people often indulge in, and I cannot boast that I would have been any more perceptive myself; indeed, experience has rather taught me otherwise. But I have learned a great deal since the days of my headstrong and wilful early youth, more than it is comfortable to know. In particular, I have learned that while the ways of the wild world may appear awesome and strange, the ways of people – with their compulsions, their terrors and their passions – are stranger and wilder by far.
*
It was dawn, my grandfather told me, when they made their way into the garden. The light of the new day was shifting through indigo to the soft grey of a woodpigeon’s wing, before emerging at last as an ominous red. Shreds of mist clung to the ornamental magnolias and the single huge cherry tree, its limbs loaded with blossom as if after heavy snowfall, then drifted off across the wide lawns to disappear between brooding yew hedges, so dark in that light as to appear black, and pillared gateposts of soft yellow stone.
Nothing stirred.
It was the sharp complaint of a robin, perched upon the crumbing orchard wall, chest fluffed out against the cold, which broke the serenity, disturbed by the appearance of the predators. The two cats paid it little attention: instead, they stalked across the lawn, dark patches marking their progress through the silvered grass as the hoar-frost turned to dew. At a low, manicured evergreen hedge they stopped and peered through a gap.
The old cat – a tortoiseshell – held his tail stiff and horizontal.
The unseasonable weather had left its mark on every leaf and stem, the silver tracery of frost etching its own subtle complications into the manmade intrications of foliage. Great whorls and chains of greenery wreathed across a perfect square, crossing and re-crossing one another with obsessive intent, as delicate as embroidery upon the earth. From corner to corner the chains ran in unbroken lines of rue and hyssop, germander and myrtle, traced by pathways of red dust.
But the older cat’s attention was held not by these curious designs, but by a figure emerging from the house beyond.
Tall and spare, its long bones clad only in scanty flesh, it made its way across the glistening flagstones of the patio and headed for the knot garden, its naked skin puckered and goose-marked by the cold.
The tortoiseshell’s tail twitched once, twice in agitation. Keeping well below the level of the herb-hedge, shoulders jutting, he slunk around the corner, beckoned for my grandfather to follow him, and disappeared stealthily into the shrubs abutting the orchard wall. The robin chirruped derisively at its enemies’ retreat, then itself took flight for the safer perch of a tall cedar.
From their respective vantage points cats and bird watched the naked figure enter the knot garden.
Once inside, the figure hesitated for a second, as if gathering itself, then began to pace back and forth over the low hedges, its movements as formalised and deliberate as any dancer’s. It turned stiffly here and made a high step there, legs thin and pale and luminous in the extraordinary light, sometimes following the planted pattern, sometimes deviating from it as if to create a counterpoint. Strange sounds – neither strictly speech nor song – spilled from its mouth. The red dust coated its bare feet.
Throughout this odd activity it carried an object clutched to its chest. A vase? A bottle? An urn?
Breakfast?
Cats and bird stared.
Reaching at last the centre of the little maze, the human seemed to have completed its private dance. Facing east with the sun in its eyes, it laid the object upon the ground. The harsh red light did neither subject any favours. Released from the shielding hands, the object was apparently revealed to be a very ordinary-looking little pot, bulbous and opaque, its glassy surface scratched and pitted from years of use. Its owner, too, appeared to have seen better days. When it crouched it did so in such a manner as to suggest many aches and pains, and the skin was stretched tight everywhere upon its gaunt frame, as if there was not quite enough of it to go around. Even so, a wealth of wrinkles fanned out across faded cheeks; deeply scored lines ringed the neck and ran down into a withered, hairless chest. Its hands were claws as it fiddled with the stopper.
After a few moments of undignified wrestling, its elbows sticking out like a chicken’s wings, the stopper flew out and landed at its feet. Thick and viscous, the liquid inside appeared reluctant to relinquish its hold on the pot. The figure straightened awkwardly, shook the vessel fretfully once, twice, three times and at last a grudging quantity spilled out into its hand. With what might seem an undue haste, the human immediately began to rub this stuff into the skin of its face. Then it captured more of the fluid and worked it into neck and shoulders. It massaged it into wasted arms and flanks. Chest and abdomen received their attentions. The human rubbed the skin of its long legs. Bending, it dusted its feet, then worked the liquid into those as well.
Dawn colours burned and flowed: rose-pink, rich amber, silvery-gold.
The robin was vastly intrigued. Into the air it rose, made a circle over the knot garden and peered down.
Below it, the figure rose, suddenly all lithe grace, made a final, hieratic gesture to the rising sun, then upended the pot. Three or four drops fell to the earth and were instantly absorbed. The human scooped up the discarded stopper with energetic impatience and inserted it firmly back into the pot’s fat little neck. The movement made its biceps contract and swell. Smooth skin glistened. Then it turned and walked back towards the house.
The robin, bold as only a robin can be, launched itself from the cedar and landed without a moment’s hesitation upon the spot the human had just vacated. It scratched at the ground, dipped its beak once or twice, then took off again, disappointed that the pot had contained no food.
As it flew back across the knot garden, towards the comfort of its roost on the orchard wall, its breast feathers caught the sun, so that they gleamed as vermilion as blood, bright with unwonted vitality.
The cats watched the bird go, eyes blankly reflective, unsure of what they had witnessed. Then, out of the shrubs my grandfather emerged, ears wary. He wandered the edge of the knot garden, sniffing cautiously. At the place where the human had entered he stopped and sniffed, puzzled. The tortoiseshell, meanwhile, began to trace a path to the centre of the maze. At last, reaching the scratches in the dust the bird had made, he bent his nose to the ground. His muzzle wrinkled. He pawed at the red earth, sniffed. According to my grandfather, he stayed there for several minutes, pawing and sniffing, the very picture of bewilderment.
Over on the orchard wall, the robin cocked its head, fascinated by the cats’ odd behaviour. At last, the old tortoiseshell turned and followed one of the diagonal pathways out of the square, until it reached the young cat on the further side of the square. Here, separated from the knot garden proper by a foot or so of trimmed grass, someone had planted a complicated border of evergreen box. It was more overgrown then the rest, its pattern obscured. The old cat shouldered its way into a gap in the planting and sat there, as still as a garden ornament.
*
Cats, even those as erudite as my great-great-grandfather and his protégé, cannot read words when they are written on the page, or planted in the ground. But they can feel their meaning when they find them in human dreams; they can hear the sound of them in people’s minds.
I know now that the planting made along the top of the knot garden spelled out the words Tempus fugit.
Time flies.
Just like birds.
My grandfather swore that robin was still alive, and that it would outlive us all.