XVI
IT WAS THE well that finally helped Virgil Jones to decide; but before he reached that point, he had snapped almost every twig he could find. When he broke them, he threw the pieces into the well.
This is how he persuaded himself:
Nicholas Deggle could not have known that Flapping Eagle would meet old Virgil.
Snap.
Ergo, he could have sent the Axona to Calf Mountain purely as an experiment, to see if the Gate he had built would hold.
Snap.
Which meant he intended to follow.
Snap.
If Nicholas Deggle returned, life would be insupportable anyway. After Grimus, Virgil Jones must rank as his main enemy. Ever since he was expelled from the island.
Snap.
If he did not return, life would scarcely be better. The effect was spreading. Dolores had made experimental forays a little way up the slopes and she had felt it. Once it reached their little hovel, it would be no better than K. For Dolores, at any rate.
Snap.
But Nicholas Deggle must have known (Flapping Eagle must not know, not yet) what Flapping Eagle, wanting what he wanted, being what he was, would do to the island. What he would in all probability do.
Snap.
Still, there was little merit left in staying put.
Snap.
Except for Dolores, of course: she would never climb the mountain again. But then, it was possible to argue that should he agree to guide Flapping Eagle—the irrevocable choice—he would be doing so for Dolores’ sake.
Snap.
Then again, what if Deggle arrived once he had left? Could Dolores cope? He thought about that for a moment; then he concluded that, if he did go, he would have to assume that she could.
Snap.
A crucial question: would he be any use as a guide, damaged as he was by past experience of the dimensions? Again, a bleak answer: he would have to hope for the best.
Snap.
Another crucial question: Could he influence Flapping Eagle sufficiently to make the whole plan work? Yet again, uncertainty: it all depended on how Flapping Eagle reacted to what he encountered on the mountain.
Snap.
And yet, was there an alternative? What with the growth of the effect, and the increased frequency of the admittedly minor earth-tremors, the island was deteriorating, and not at all slowly.
Snap.
It was at this point that the well helped. He threw the broken twig into it and reflected upon the similarity between the well and the island. An idea that didn’t work. Did one abandon it, set oneself apart from it as he had done from the life of the island? Did one attempt to save it? Or did one agree to destroy it, in the same way as one would fill up a dry well…?
Like Flapping Eagle, who had already chosen ascent instead of stasis; like Dolores O’Toole, who, last night, had chosen to speak her love rather than keep silent any more; in the same way, Virgil Jones decided upon action rather than prolonged inaction. Because it was there to be done, as the chicken had been there for Flapping Eagle to kill, as Dolores’ love had been there to be declared, and as the well was there to fill. One does, in the end, what there is to do, he told himself, and stood up, straightening his bowler hat, blinking.
He snapped a last twig, and then Flapping Eagle arrived at a run.
Virgil Jones took his courage in both hands and said:
—Mr Eagle, are you still set upon climbing the mountain?
Flapping Eagle stopped, out of breath.
—Yes, he said, and was about to continue when Virgil said:
—In that case, you must permit me to be your guide.
Flapping Eagle was struck dumb by the unexpectedness of the statement.
—Mrs O’Toole, he said at last. I don’t think she’s very well.
Dolores O’Toole was still in the trunk when Virgil went into the hut—alone, on Flapping Eagle’s suggestion.
She stood up with a cry of pleasure as he came in.
—Virgil, she said. I was so afraid.
—Now, now, Dolores, he said helplessly, feeling grossly hypocritical.
She climbed out of the trunk and came to him, standing in front of him like a vulnerable chimpanzee.
—Nothing will change, will it, Virgil? she repeated.
Virgil Jones closed his eyes.
—Dolores, he said. Please try to understand. I must go up the mountain with Mr Eagle. I must.
—O good, she cried all at once, clapping her hands. I knew it would be all right.
He looked at her. —Dolores, he said. Did you hear? We are going to leave in the morning. Leave.
—Yes, she said, early in the morning. We’ll go down to the beach as usual, and I’ll carry your chair for you, clumsy and shortsighted as you are. My love.
—O god, said Virgil Jones.
—It’s not your fault, he said outside, to Flapping Eagle. Please ascribe no blame to yourself. It is my responsibility. Mea culpa.
—You’ll stay with her, of course, said Flapping Eagle.
—No, said Mr Jones. If acceptable to you, we leave tomorrow morning.
Flapping Eagle had to ask: —Why, Mr Jones? Why choose me?
Mr Jones smiled crookedly. —My dear fellow, he said, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Do you know Latin?
—No, said Flapping Eagle. Or just a few words.
—Timere Dañaos et dona ferentes, said Mr Jones. Do you follow me?
—Perhaps it’s just as well, said Virgil Jones, if we are to be friends.