Black Marsden by Wilson Harris

ice-cap of water had come over the top of his boot and there were two options open to him. He could try and gain the safety of his house though to all appearances with his eye unstuck, unglued from the light, it had vanished again into the sky. Or he could light a fire in the open without delay and endeavour to thaw his foot out, dry his boot out.
    He was filled all at once with a sense of the callouses of infinity (the kiss of gloved hand upon booted foot), numb climax, freezing danger rolled into one enduring fabric as though Sky and Creek in deceiving him as reflections of many a dead mate or vanished expedition were ensnaring him into a revelation of the workshop of the gods….
    He stood upon the very rim of ghostland—one collective foot already in the grave, one legendary cabin already in the sky. Thus as he began to ascend and descend Sky and Creek he became aware that there were two Hornbys projected from him into the cosmos. One was a man drawn out of the hat of millions, so steeped in extremity and danger beyond humanity’s lot as to become a private body in the stars, quintessential solitariness, Arctic legend of soul. The other was a man standing in the boot of millions so benumbed by humanity’s lot as to die unsung, unheralded, Arctic function of non-memory, non-soul.
    Had he as private of space who had conquered the stars achieved his goal, or as the world’s forgotten boot computerized an infinite desolation and an infinite stairway into the ambiguous family of man? …
    Harp ceased his vivid and enormous and unfinished recital of the discovery of a new world. He had evoked such an unfathomable and rich correspondence between us that I felt strangely lost, strangely bewildered and yet face to face with him across a fire on the other side of the globe. “I hope,” I said, and pleaded with him across that living fire which drew us together, “you will not burn your father’s papers into a stoical wilderness.”
    Harp looked at me and I sensed the correspondence with Marsden’s sackcloth map which had been draped across a chair.
    “There,” I said, stabbing the map with a finger, “is Marsden Creek. Marsden’s legacy is everywhere.”
    “Ah,” said Harp laughing a little, “have you not answered your own question? …”
    *
    “Mr. Goodrich, sir, Mr. Goodrich,” said Mrs. Glenwearie shaking Goodrich gently. Goodrich woke but for a moment or two could not tell where he was. Mrs. Glenwearie looked distressed. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Goodrich dear, but you were crying out….”
    “I thought … where is he?”
    “Where is who?”
    Goodrich passed a drowsy hand over his eyes. “Perhaps he doesn’t exist. Perhaps I only dreamt….”
    Mrs. Glenwearie moved to a window and opened it wide to let some air in upon the lingering odour of tobacco. “Now, sir, I’ll get you a nice high tea in a little while, as soon as I’ve straightened the room a bit.” She tilted Harp’s cigarette ash into a tray.
    “He was here,” said Goodrich.
    “Mr. Goodrich dear,” said Mrs. Glenwearie gently. “I don’t understand half of the things you say. If it’s the wee gentleman in the long coat he left shortly after I got back from the butcher’s. I was very late today. And then you fell asleep for a bit.”
    Goodrich laughed and tried to make a joke of things. “I need an early night,” he said, “after this afternoon’s session.”
    “Doctor Marsden said not to leave supper this evening. What are your plans, sir?”
    “Nothing for me, thank you, Mrs. Glenwearie. I do hope my visitors aren’t proving too much of a bother.”
    “Oh no, Mr. Goodrich, don’t you worry over a thing. I manage very well. Mr. Knife is quite kind, you know. Sometimes he insists on washing up the dishes. And he’s a one for stories. He told me Doctor Marsden’s play may be in the Festival this year. I said I would go if it was.”
    “Did he indeed?” said Goodrich. “I hope it may be.” He mimicked Marsden: