‘Steady,’ said Berrigan, ‘don’t lose your nerve.
This creature which you behold swimming up
From the quarry pit, with its arms outstretched
In supplication, is no enemy, nor is
It an evil spirit – it’s the soul of
The trees which were desecrated to make
This eyesore, in the face of local opposition.
Even Swampy couldn’t have put a stop
To this development, so rapacious
Are the quarry company and their backers.
Here profit is the only good, and here
You see the results of that philosophy,
Which no scorched earth policy could match.’
These were the words I heard Berrigan speak
As he beckoned the creature to come ashore
Near the end of the rocky promontory.
The gentle creature, its eyes full of pain
And sorrow, came onward, landing its head
And trunk, but drew not its roots upon the bank.
Its face was like that of a mother who
Has lost all her children in some catastrophe
Yet it shone from inside with a glow of
Benediction; within its translucent head no
Brain matter, but the ghostly silhouettes of trees.
As at times fishing boats lie on the shore,
Moored part on water and part on land,
Or as the endangered beaver, once common
On the polluted banks of the Rhine
In the land of the rowdy bierkellers,
Squats to hide from its persecutors,
Just so this great creature lay upon the
Brim of that dusty and bottomless pit.
Berrigan said: ‘Let’s take a shortcut to
Where the king of limbs has landed.’
Then we made our way down on the right and
Took ten paces towards the edge
Careful to avoid the flames which were falling here.
When we came to the creature, I saw nearby,
Crouched in the burning ruin of the church,
People huddled close to the altar.
Here Berrigan said to me: ‘So you can
Get a complete picture of this Zone,
Go over and have a word with them,
But don’t hang around; meanwhile I’ll have a
Talk with our friend here, and see if we can
Borrow his strong shoulders.’ Leaving Berrigan
Behind, I sidled up to these woeful folk,
Sheltering under the narthex.
Their eyes appeared to be bursting with grief;
On this side and on that their hands were flapping
To ward off the flames and the burning flakes
Of sand which rained down on them without let-up.
They were like dogs in summer, plagued by
Fleas that bite them, attacking
Their itch now with snout, now with paw.
When I had examined the faces of
A few of these wretches on whom the flames fell
I couldn’t recognise anyone, so burned up
Were their features, but I noticed that each
Wore a singed baseball cap or a T-shirt,
On which I recognised some of the logos,
And these they seemed to wish to protect from
The flames at the expense of all else.
I saw the crest of a blue eagle, a
Black horse, four red triangles arranged to form
A hexagon, a blue and white globe and
A black key; then one who wore a sweatshirt
Stamped with a blue cross surrounded by four
Circles, said: ‘What are you doing in this pit?
Didn’t you see the KEEP OUT signs?
If you’re a protestor, you’re too late,
Get out of here! And seeing you’re still alive,
You can tell my friend Sir Fred Goodwin
That I have a pew reserved for him right here,
And another one for Peter Cummings,
A lot hotter than his villa on the
Costa del Sol!’ Then he made a face, thrusting
His tongue out like a bull that licks its nose.
Not wanting to try Ted’s patience, and he’d
Told me to be quick, I hurried back to his side,
Where I found him already saddled up
On the trunk of that great spectre, and he
Said to me: ‘I forgot to ask, how’s your
Horsemanship? You’ve read Castiglione,
Now’s the time to put your book-learning to the test!’
I climbed up beside him as one who
Reluctantly boards a scary ride at
The funfair, then, putting his arms about
Me, he said: ‘Tree spirit, now we’re ready,
Take it slowly, be mindful of the living weight
You carry.’ As a ferry goes from its mooring
Backwards, so this living airship moved,
And when it felt itself free from the ridge
There where its trunk had been it turned its roots
Which undulated like the tentacles of
An octopus, propelling us over the abyss.
I doubt if Phaethon feared more when he took
The reins of the chariot of the sun,
Scorching the earth as can still be seen today,
Or if Harry Potter was more afraid
The first time he mounted a broomstick
In a game of quidditch, than I was then
When I saw only air on all sides
And saw extinguished every sight
Save the broad back of the king of limbs.
He goes on, swimming slowly, rising up
Like a jumbo jet played back in slow motion,
Then wheels round, changing track,
But I only know this from the wind in my face.
From below, I hear the roar of machinery,
As it scythes into the earth, and at this
I stretch out my neck to look down,
But doing so only made me more apprehensive,
For beneath me I could see nothing but
A city of flames, full of fearful cries
And lamentings, and I drew back tightening
My grip. And then I saw what I had not
Been able to till then: the spiral path
Of our descent, like that of a jet coming in
To Stansted, that has to kill time before
The runway is clear, and as we went down
I saw torment heaped upon torment
Closing in on us from every side.
The tree spirit brought us down gently,
Before a building that resembled a
Multi-storey car park, and here we alighted.
Unburdened, the ghost shot off, like an arrow from a bowstring.