Greybeard

Perhaps that had been one of the ineradicable faults of mankind — for even a convinced atheist had to admit there were faults — that it was never content with a thing as a thing; it had to turn things into symbols of other things. A rainbow was not only a rainbow; a storm was a sign of celestial anger; and even from the puddingy earth came forth dark chthonian gods. What did it all mean? What an agnostic believed and what the willowy parson believed were not only irreconcilable systems of thought: they were equally valid systems of thought because, somewhere along the evolutionary line, man, developing this habit of thinking of symbols, had provided himself with more alternatives than he could manage, more systems of alternatives than he could manage. Animals moved in no such channel of imagination — they copulated and they ate; but to the saint, bread was a symbol of life, as the phallus was to the pagan. The animals themselves were pressed into symbolic service — and not only in mediaeval bestiaries, by any means.

Such a usage was a distortion, although man seemed unable to ratiocinate without it. That had been the trouble right from the beginning. Perhaps it had even been the beginning, back among those first men that man could never get clearly defined (for the early men, being also symbols, had to be either lumbering brutes, or timid noble savages, or to undergo some other interpretation). Perhaps the first fire, the first tool, the first wheel, the first carving in a limestone cave, had each possessed a symbolic rather than a practical value, had each been pressed to serve distortion rather than reality. It was a sort of madness that had driven man from his humble sites on the edges of the woods into towns and cities, into arts and wars, into religious crusades, into martyrdom and prostitution, into dyspepsia and fasting, into love and hatred, into this present cul-de-sac; it had all come about in pursuit of symbols. In the beginning was the symbol, and darkness was over the face of the Earth.

Greybeard abandoned this line of thought as he came to the next pitch along the road. He found himself looking at another banner that said “Eternal Life”.

The banner hung across the front of a garage standing drunkenly beside a dilapidated house. Its doors had fallen off, but were propped inside to screen off the back half of the garage. A fire burned behind this screen, throwing the shadows of two people across the roof. In front of the screen, nursing a lantern in chilled hands, was a shrivel-gummed old girl perched on a box. She called to Greybeard in a routine fashion, “If you want Eternal Life, here’s the place to find it. Don’t listen to the parson! His asking price is too high. Here, you don’t have to give anything, you don’t have to give anything up. Our kind of eternal life can be bought by the syringe-full and paid for without any trouble over your soul. Walk in if you want to live for ever!”

“Shot in the arm or shot in the dark, I don’t know that I entirely trust you or the parson, old lady.”

“Come in and get reborn, you bag of bones!” Not relishing this mode of address, even if delivered by rote, Greybeard said sharply, “I want to speak to

Bunny Jingadangelow. Is he here?” The old witch coughed and sent a gob of green phlegm flapping towards the floor. “Doctor Jingadangelow ain’t here. He’s not at everyone’s beck and call, you know. What do you want?”

“Can you tell me where he is? I want to speak to him.”

“I’ll fix you an appointment if you want a rejuvenation or the immortality course, but I tell you he ain’t here.”

“Who’s behind the screen?”

“My husband, if you must know, and a client, as if it’s any of your business. Who are you, anyway? I never seen you before.” One of the shadows flopped more widely across the roof, and a high voice said, “What’s the trouble out there?” Next moment, a youth appeared. The effect on Greybeard was like a shock of cold water. Through the toils of the years, he had arrived at the realization that childhood was now no more than an idea interred within the crania of old men, and that young flesh was an antiquity in the land. If you forgot about rumours, he was himself all that the withered world had left to offer in the way of a youngster. But this — this stripling, dressed merely in a sort of tunic, wearing a red and green necklace like Norsgrey’s, exposing his frail white legs and arms, regarding Greybeard with wide and innocent eyes…

“My God,” Greybeard said. “They they are still being born!” The youth spoke in a shrill impersonal voice. “You see before you, sir, the beneficial effects of Dr.

Jingadangelow’s well-known combined Rejuvenation and Immortality course, respected and recommended from Gloucester to Oxford, from Banbury to Berks. Enrol yourself here for a course, sir, before you are too late. You can be like me, friend, after only a few trial doses.”