Chapter 21: The Font
It was on George Mac Govan-Crow’s suggestion that before heading for West Kennet Longbarrow – their planned excursion that morning – his three houseguests should first visit the parish church that lay across the road from the cottage. It contained, he had told them, something that might interest them, or so he thought, after the conversations they had been having over breakfast that morning had veered from celestial dogs back to dragons and dragon-slayers.
Church Cottage, as the name suggested, lay directly across the narrow street from the lych-gate of St. James’s Church; it was a small building with a square belfry, set amid a well-kept graveyard – George Mac Govan-Crow being the gardener who kept it in check, being parish sexton as well as the gardener at Avebury Manor, in the employ of no less a person than the millionaire archaeologist Keiller.
The path led between the gravestones to the porch, and to a wooden doorway topped with a semi-circular Norman arch with toothed edges.
The three friends took in the architectural detail and commented on the prettiness of the building; before opening the door and stepping into the cool shade. The interior of the church was dim, and rather truncated – more a chapel than village church. Tolkien walked to the altar rail, crossed himself and knelt in prayer. Lewis merely nodded to the altar; Barfield paid it little heed, walking to the font that stood at the end of the aisle.
‘Ah, I see what he means, though these are wyverns…’
Barfield stood tracing the design carved on the side of the half-barrel shaped font with his fingers.
‘The man’s a gardener, Owen – to him a dragon is a dragon, you can’t expect him to have your pedantic knowledge of medieval bestiaries…’
‘I know that – I was just making a comment – definitely two legs and long tail, not a fish’s, so land, not sea-wyverns, if you want me to be pedantic…’
The font was ornately carved in a primitive style; a faceless figure formed the centre, in a flounced skirt, a snarling wyvern flanking him on either side… all set amid curling tendrils and above a crudely asymmetrical pattern of vaulted columns, all seeming to bend as if in a stiff breeze.
‘What is it, then? St Michael and the Devil, do you think?’ Lewis asked, approaching the font, and kneeling to take in the detail. ‘Or St. George and the dragon?’
‘No.’ Barfield reasoned. ‘That’s not a spear in his hand – it’s a crozier. He must be a bishop.’
‘What’s that in his other hand?’ Tolkien asked, having joined the others after finished his brief prayers.
‘A book, maybe – or a cup?’
‘Seems a little small for a book; a cup seems more likely.’ Tolkien commented. The cup, or whatever it was, was being held close to the figure’s chest, while his crozier, held out in his right hand, was being driven down onto the head of the wyvern on that side, who seemed to be biting the man’s foot.
Tolkien, reminded of his thoughts the previous day at the Sanctuary, quoted the verse out loud:
‘’And the Lord God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust thou shalt eat all the days of thy life: And I shall put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.’
He ran his fingers over the space where the face had once been – now flattened, with a metal hook protruding that once had fixed the carved features to the font.
‘It’s a shame the face has been lost.’ He remarked.
‘Indeed.’ Said Lewis.
‘It would have been interesting to see if originally he had but one eye…’
Lewis chuckled. ‘You think this is some pagan god in disguise?’ he asked.
Tolkien shrugged. ‘Don’t you find it odd that in this place, this serpent-temple as Stukeley imagined it, we find an image on this font of the subjugation of the mythical serpent? On one hand I can see this imagery as the church seeking to crush any signs of the old magic that might still have haunted these stones…using the Biblical imagery of the serpent; but equally…’ he continued, ‘might this image be a veiled reference to that older pagan tale of the defeat of the dragon and the imbibing of his blood or mead of knowledge? After all, if that is a cup…’
Lewis was still smiling.
‘You know there could be other explanations – more mundane.’
‘Of course.’
‘The two dragons, for instance - this could be a reference to the Great Schism of 1054 - since the Eastern Christian crosier is a staff with two dragons facing each other.’
Tolkien looked long at Lewis to see if he was being serious; the latter raised his eyebrows then winked, and walked off whistling.
Tolkien remained at the font, absentmindedly caressing the missing face with his thumb; it was hard to imagine in this placid setting, in the dim, cool sanctuary, with its scent of cold aged masonry blending with that of the flowers on the altar, that this font had possibly been attacked by some crazed puritan; and why not? The same fervour had seen most of the pagan stones of the circle burned and smashed to pieces; but this was different – this place was not some heathen temple.
The morning sun had moved so that a shaft of sunlight now blazed upon the altar cloths, and Tolkien felt a familiar sense of awe envelop him.
‘Bot Crystes mersy and Mary and John,
'Thise arn the grounde of alle my blisse.’
he muttered to himself, from the Pearl poem.
He felt a pang of compassion for those ancient men who had been born too early to know of the glory of Christ and the Saints… they must have had their signs, too – that salvation would come, like the light of the morning star presaging dawn…
‘What’s on your mind, Tollers?’ It was Lewis’s voice.
Tolkien smiled an apologetic smile and walked from the font, saying nothing. He had learned to keep his innermost religious feelings to himself, at least in the company of Jack.
Outside in the churchyard the sound of hedge-clippers could just be made out as George Mac Govan-Crow set about his task for the day, trimming back the yew tree hedge.
‘You seem to be bonding rather well with our host.’ Lewis remarked.
‘He’s an interesting man, Jack. He seems to be warming to us; at first I got the impression he was looking down at us, though I may have been wrong.’
‘Not looking down,’ Barfield suggested, ‘wary.’
‘Of strangers?’ Tolkien asked.
‘No. That we might be friends of Keiller.’ Barfield replied.
‘How so?’
‘It’s something he said when we were off to get my newspaper this morning. You see Keiller often has friends to stay at the manor – and something Mr Mac Govan-Crow said made me think that he doesn’t really approve of some of the goings on.’
‘Such as?’
‘He didn’t really say – except to explain that as a gardener one often is overlooked, and that people often talk about things in his earshot that they really should keep to themselves.’
Barfield cleared his throat.
‘He said that he sometimes wondered if Keiller’s vision of rebuilding Avebury was purely scientific… or whether he had some other purpose in mind.’
‘Good Lord.’ said Lewis. ‘What kind of purpose?’
‘He mentioned a statue of Pan in the grounds of the Manor, the plants about it trampled and dowsed in wine, he said.’
Tolkien stood looking down at the hacked-away face of the bishop or saint on the font; was Keiller somehow trying to overthrow the victory of the saintly serpent slayer? Was his vision one of restoring this heathen temple so that once more ancient rites might be performed here? He shivered at the thought. It wouldn’t be permitted. Couldn’t be. Those times are past and will not come again. The Great God Pan, as Plutarch reported, is dead – and ever should remain so!
It was on George Mac Govan-Crow’s suggestion that before heading for West Kennet Longbarrow – their planned excursion that morning – his three houseguests should first visit the parish church that lay across the road from the cottage. It contained, he had told them, something that might interest them, or so he thought, after the conversations they had been having over breakfast that morning had veered from celestial dogs back to dragons and dragon-slayers.
Church Cottage, as the name suggested, lay directly across the narrow street from the lych-gate of St. James’s Church; it was a small building with a square belfry, set amid a well-kept graveyard – George Mac Govan-Crow being the gardener who kept it in check, being parish sexton as well as the gardener at Avebury Manor, in the employ of no less a person than the millionaire archaeologist Keiller.
The path led between the gravestones to the porch, and to a wooden doorway topped with a semi-circular Norman arch with toothed edges.
The three friends took in the architectural detail and commented on the prettiness of the building; before opening the door and stepping into the cool shade. The interior of the church was dim, and rather truncated – more a chapel than village church. Tolkien walked to the altar rail, crossed himself and knelt in prayer. Lewis merely nodded to the altar; Barfield paid it little heed, walking to the font that stood at the end of the aisle.
‘Ah, I see what he means, though these are wyverns…’
Barfield stood tracing the design carved on the side of the half-barrel shaped font with his fingers.
‘The man’s a gardener, Owen – to him a dragon is a dragon, you can’t expect him to have your pedantic knowledge of medieval bestiaries…’
‘I know that – I was just making a comment – definitely two legs and long tail, not a fish’s, so land, not sea-wyverns, if you want me to be pedantic…’
The font was ornately carved in a primitive style; a faceless figure formed the centre, in a flounced skirt, a snarling wyvern flanking him on either side… all set amid curling tendrils and above a crudely asymmetrical pattern of vaulted columns, all seeming to bend as if in a stiff breeze.
‘What is it, then? St Michael and the Devil, do you think?’ Lewis asked, approaching the font, and kneeling to take in the detail. ‘Or St. George and the dragon?’
‘No.’ Barfield reasoned. ‘That’s not a spear in his hand – it’s a crozier. He must be a bishop.’
‘What’s that in his other hand?’ Tolkien asked, having joined the others after finished his brief prayers.
‘A book, maybe – or a cup?’
‘Seems a little small for a book; a cup seems more likely.’ Tolkien commented. The cup, or whatever it was, was being held close to the figure’s chest, while his crozier, held out in his right hand, was being driven down onto the head of the wyvern on that side, who seemed to be biting the man’s foot.
Tolkien, reminded of his thoughts the previous day at the Sanctuary, quoted the verse out loud:
‘’And the Lord God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust thou shalt eat all the days of thy life: And I shall put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.’
He ran his fingers over the space where the face had once been – now flattened, with a metal hook protruding that once had fixed the carved features to the font.
‘It’s a shame the face has been lost.’ He remarked.
‘Indeed.’ Said Lewis.
‘It would have been interesting to see if originally he had but one eye…’
Lewis chuckled. ‘You think this is some pagan god in disguise?’ he asked.
Tolkien shrugged. ‘Don’t you find it odd that in this place, this serpent-temple as Stukeley imagined it, we find an image on this font of the subjugation of the mythical serpent? On one hand I can see this imagery as the church seeking to crush any signs of the old magic that might still have haunted these stones…using the Biblical imagery of the serpent; but equally…’ he continued, ‘might this image be a veiled reference to that older pagan tale of the defeat of the dragon and the imbibing of his blood or mead of knowledge? After all, if that is a cup…’
Lewis was still smiling.
‘You know there could be other explanations – more mundane.’
‘Of course.’
‘The two dragons, for instance - this could be a reference to the Great Schism of 1054 - since the Eastern Christian crosier is a staff with two dragons facing each other.’
Tolkien looked long at Lewis to see if he was being serious; the latter raised his eyebrows then winked, and walked off whistling.
Tolkien remained at the font, absentmindedly caressing the missing face with his thumb; it was hard to imagine in this placid setting, in the dim, cool sanctuary, with its scent of cold aged masonry blending with that of the flowers on the altar, that this font had possibly been attacked by some crazed puritan; and why not? The same fervour had seen most of the pagan stones of the circle burned and smashed to pieces; but this was different – this place was not some heathen temple.
The morning sun had moved so that a shaft of sunlight now blazed upon the altar cloths, and Tolkien felt a familiar sense of awe envelop him.
‘Bot Crystes mersy and Mary and John,
'Thise arn the grounde of alle my blisse.’
he muttered to himself, from the Pearl poem.
He felt a pang of compassion for those ancient men who had been born too early to know of the glory of Christ and the Saints… they must have had their signs, too – that salvation would come, like the light of the morning star presaging dawn…
‘What’s on your mind, Tollers?’ It was Lewis’s voice.
Tolkien smiled an apologetic smile and walked from the font, saying nothing. He had learned to keep his innermost religious feelings to himself, at least in the company of Jack.
Outside in the churchyard the sound of hedge-clippers could just be made out as George Mac Govan-Crow set about his task for the day, trimming back the yew tree hedge.
‘You seem to be bonding rather well with our host.’ Lewis remarked.
‘He’s an interesting man, Jack. He seems to be warming to us; at first I got the impression he was looking down at us, though I may have been wrong.’
‘Not looking down,’ Barfield suggested, ‘wary.’
‘Of strangers?’ Tolkien asked.
‘No. That we might be friends of Keiller.’ Barfield replied.
‘How so?’
‘It’s something he said when we were off to get my newspaper this morning. You see Keiller often has friends to stay at the manor – and something Mr Mac Govan-Crow said made me think that he doesn’t really approve of some of the goings on.’
‘Such as?’
‘He didn’t really say – except to explain that as a gardener one often is overlooked, and that people often talk about things in his earshot that they really should keep to themselves.’
Barfield cleared his throat.
‘He said that he sometimes wondered if Keiller’s vision of rebuilding Avebury was purely scientific… or whether he had some other purpose in mind.’
‘Good Lord.’ said Lewis. ‘What kind of purpose?’
‘He mentioned a statue of Pan in the grounds of the Manor, the plants about it trampled and dowsed in wine, he said.’
Tolkien stood looking down at the hacked-away face of the bishop or saint on the font; was Keiller somehow trying to overthrow the victory of the saintly serpent slayer? Was his vision one of restoring this heathen temple so that once more ancient rites might be performed here? He shivered at the thought. It wouldn’t be permitted. Couldn’t be. Those times are past and will not come again. The Great God Pan, as Plutarch reported, is dead – and ever should remain so!