Silent, apart, and without escort
We went on, the one before, the other
After, as haiku writers on a long journey.
I was trying to explain to Ted how the whole thing
Reminded me of a fable of Aesop’s,
The one where a frog offers to take a mouse
Over a river, but ends up drowning it,
Finally getting eaten itself, by a
Passing kite – the more I talked the less
Convinced he looked – when, one thought leading to
Another, as sometimes happens,
The whole thing suddenly came clear to me:
‘It’s not like what we just saw, it’s like us:
You’re the frog, I’m the mouse, the Kitchen Devils
Are the hawk: to put it bluntly,
We’re in danger, because after what we
Made them do, and everything that happened,
They’re going to be pretty pissed off with us!’
I was so frightened I kept glancing back
Over my shoulder; but now Berrigan
Looked more convinced: ‘I get your drift,’ he said,
‘We’d better split.’ Berrigan had scarcely finished
Outlining his plan when I heard them coming,
Wings spread, intent on catching us.
He grabbed me by the arm instinctively,
Like a mother waking to the sound of a smoke alarm
Who pulls her son close to her and runs
Without even a thought of getting dressed,
And we dashed out through the café, leaving behind us
A trail of upturned tables and spilt cappuccinos.
No sooner were we outside than Berrigan
Turned to me, saying: ‘Hold on!’
Then we both leapt down the scree
We had descended once before,
This time sliding down on our backsides
Like kids on a hill walk when the snow comes down.
We landed with a bump in the underground
Car park, next to a door marked CAST ONLY.
As we looked back up the slope we could see
The Kitchen Devils waving their prongs,
But they didn’t dare follow us,
We were out of their jurisdiction.
Within we found a painted crowd, who walked
Round at a snail’s pace on a raised stage,
Weeping, their look worn-out.
They wore huge cloaks which, on the outside, shone like
Gold, like something you might see on a catwalk,
But inside they were of lead, so heavy
That by comparison a suit of armour
Would have seemed as flimsy as a shellsuit.
At first I thought we had interrupted
The rehearsals for some Beckett play,
And I turned to Berrigan and said:
‘Is it some new interpretation of Quad?’
But Berrigan, my guide, motioned with his head,
As though to say ‘If only…’, then added:
‘See if there’s anyone you recognise.’
I looked up at them from where I stood in
The pit as they trudged slowly by,
Then one of their number, who saw me gazing,
Called out: ‘You, who seem to move so freely
In the dark air, perhaps you have come
To be fitted with a cloak?’
Berrigan told me to stay still, and as I
Continued to gaze on the gilded shades
I saw two who showed by their look
Great eagerness to be with me,
But their heavy load held them back.
When at last they drew up alongside us
They looked at me for a long time
Without uttering a word, then they turned to
One another and said between them:
‘By the way he moves his throat, I’d say
This one was alive; and if they are dead
By what right do they go without the heavy stole?’
Then they said to me: ‘Breather, for that is
What you seem to be, welcome to the Hedge School
Of the hypocrites. Tell us who you are?’
And I to them: ‘On the slimy banks of
The Lagan I was born and grew up in that
Strife-torn city, and I am in the body
That I always had. But tell me, who are you
Who distil such sorrow as I see running
Down your cheeks? And what punishment is it
That shines so brightly on your backs?’
And one of them replied to me: ‘Our gilded cloaks
Are lined with lead so thick that it makes us
Creak as we walk. We are from the ranks of
Hypocritical academics, who did not practise
What we preached: my name was Jeremy,
I was a well-known Marxist historian
Who sent my son to a fee-paying school
To give him a head start; my friend here was
Once a famous theorist, a translator
Of Derrida, espousing radical politics,
Who treated all she met with scorn.’
‘I know your type…’ I began, but said no more,
For now my eyes fell on one crucified
On the stage with three stakes driven into the ground,
And when he caught sight of me he writhed all over,
Blowing into his beard with sighs,
And Jeremy, who witnessed this, said:
‘That impaled figure you see stretched out
In pain is the man who advised the VC
To raise the fees to £9,000 a year.
Naked, he lies stretched out across our path,
As you can see, and as we pass over him,
He must feel the weight of our heavy cloaks.’
I saw Berrigan staring contemptuously
At this forlorn figure, stretched out on the stage,
The one who had raised fees now unable to raise a hand.
Afterwards, Berrigan addressed the
Historian: ‘Tell me, buddy,’ he said,
‘Is there any way out of this place
That doesn’t go through the café?
We had a bit of a disagreement
With some of the catering students.’
‘I can show you out through the green room,
If you like,’ the Marxist replied,
‘From there you should be able to scramble
Up to Square 5, from where it’s a short walk
To the next pit. It would be impossible
Wearing these heavy cloaks, but you two,
Who are light on your feet, should make it.’
At the thought of the climb Berrigan looked
Peeved, and let out an exaggerated sigh.
We left the Hedge School behind with heavy footsteps.