To catch up with the reading, see the Introduction, Setup, and Development.
Climax? Isn’t it a little early for that? Most of us have the idea that the climax is a high point of the story (as the word would seem to suggest), after which nothing is left but tying up loose ends. But there’s another way to understand climax, in literary terms: it’s the point at which all the crucial decisions have been made. We’ll come to that point at the end of Chapter 12. The “high point” of the story will indeed wait until the fourth quarter, but it will be the working out of the characters’ choices, not the forcing of them.
CHAPTER NINE: THE SARACEN’S HEAD
9-1 Saracen means “Arabic,” referring to Alcasan’s ethnicity. Saracen was also the inclusive name given to 
Muslim groups who occupied the Holy Land and fought against the Crusaders. Poor Alcasan barely has the distinction of being a character in the story, and he’s not one now, as we’ll discover. These scenes with “the head” are the closest Lewis ever came to horror literature, but notice they are all experienced indirectly; narrated or mediated by a character rather than by direct action. He will take us into that forbidden chamber, but not yet.
9-2 No attribution has been found for the line quoted in the first chapter about “an inflammation swollen and deformed, his memory,” so Lewis himself could be the poet. Great line, underscoring Mark’s clash with cold reality. “They would kill him if he annoyed them; perhaps behead him.” Notice how the N.I.C.E. has become they, but Mark does not yet identify with another us. He’s between stools now, literally damned if he does and damned if he does not. Notice how his “modern” education has not equipped him to deal with an unambiguous crisis.
9-3 A reader may be excused for feeling a little impatient with Lewis here; breaking off an exciting narrative to attend to MacPhee and his annoying discursions. On the other hand, it’s rather clever of the author to introduce the subject of supernatural beings by means of a hardboiled skeptic. MacPhee’s background is worth noting: he’s the descendant of Scottish Covenanters who were deported to Ireland by James I as a way of getting rid of them, and also helping to civilize the “wild Irish.” That’s why Northern Ireland is Protestant. As a native of Belfast, Lewis no doubt had Covenanter blood in his veins. He seems to have had some respect for the Scottish Calvinists who demanded proof in the word of God (like MacPhee’s uncle), but would probably fault them for lack of imagination and sympathy. (G.K. Chesterton, one of Lewis’s spiritual guides, had no regard for Calvinism whatsoever.) When Jane asks, about the eldila, “Are they perfectly huge?” she’s remembering her experience with hugeness in 7-2. ~ The poem Camilla quotes is by Charles Williams, a good friend of Lewis and member of the “Inklings” circle. ~ Logres derives from the ancient Welsh name for the England of King Arthur. Arthur is probably one of the “perhaps about six” humans who never died but were taken straight to Heaven. We can account for two more (Enoch and Elijah)—does the Bible preclude there being any others?
9-4 This strategy session produces no clear strategy, to MacPhee’s disgust, but we finally know what we’re up against. “Science” proposes to join with “magic,” new power with old power, to surround and ultimately crush humanity. Even in the midst of apocalyptic concerns, squabbles over authority and chain-of-command pop up. The Director’s question about personnel (“Were you all under the impression that I had selected you?”) raises an interesting question about choice and destiny. No one in the company can say either that they came freely or that they were compelled to come in; rather, it was both. Lewis says this about his own conversion, in Surprised by Joy. Recalls Jesus’ reminder to his disciples that their wills are not entirely their own: “You have not chosen me, but I chose you.”
9-5 The Director ponders. It’s worthwhile to ponder with him, but if you get swamped by obscure references and vocabulary, the relevant point is that science and magic are not that far apart (more on this later). Historically they were joined at the hip: “one was sickly and died; the other was strong and throve,” he wrote in The Abolition of Man. Both were born of the same desire, “to subdue reality to the wishes of men.” However, in reuniting with magic at this late date, science may be getting more than it bargained for. “What should they find incredible, since they believed no longer in a rational universe?” The Inner Ring is at the point that the inhabitants of Babel reached in Gen. 11:6: “They are one people, and they have one language, and this is only the beginning of what they will do. And nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them.”
Even if you don’t follow the entire sequence of thought, it’s helpful to understand a few terms: Numinor belongs to the world of Tolkien; it refers to the fall of the Second Era in Middle Earth mythology. (Tolkien was another member of Inklings* and Lewis was very familiar with his progress on The Lord of the Rings.) The lost continent of Atlantis was one inspiration for Numinor. ~ Elan vital = life force. ~ Panpsychism: the belief that plants and inanimate objects, as well as humans and animals, enjoy some form of consciousness. ~ Anima mundi = world soul.
CHAPTER TEN: THE CONQUERED CITY
10-1 Mark is at checkmate: stay at Belbury, and descend to levels he doesn’t want to go; leave Belbury, and face conviction for murder, followed by hanging. Take a moment to notice the wallet, a plot element with which Lewis has employed the Rule of Three: the first mention (4-3) introduces the object when Mark mentions to Straik that he has lost it. The second (6-2) reinforces that loss (and reminds the reader about it) when Mark frets to Captain O’Hara about money. The third mention springs the trap. We know, though Mark doesn’t yet, that it’s a deliberate frame-up. He’s also slow to recognize that guilt or innocence has no relevance whatsoever—no more than left or right, right or wrong, truth or falsehood. The Inner ring has moved “Beyond Good and Evil” (to borrow a title from Nietzsche who foresaw this very thing).
10-2 At least Mark is finally and permanently alerted to his danger. We want to cheer when he strikes out at Wither, but wait–Wither isn’t really there. His mode of being has altered in a way we’ll learn more about later. He is no longer a “person,” in any way we would understand. But Mark, by contrast, may be on his way to becoming one: note carefully the last paragraph.
10-3 It will take a while, though. He hasn’t a strong enough character to take a firm stand for either side. Dimble has acquired that strength, but has to struggle with his own self-righteousness because of it: “trying very hard not to hate, and to despise, and above all not to enjoy hating and despising . . .” This is a temptation for a lot of Christians (I’m one of them); how easy it is to look down on weakness or foolishness from our lofty perch! Like we’re the ones who have it all together. Our best antidote is I Cor. 6: “For such were some of you.” Dimble ends up doing the right thing, but Mark is undone by indecisiveness. Unable to make up his mind to take a genuine risk, he has his mind made up for him.
10-4 Dimble’s self-examination while driving home is another good reality check for Christians: if we feel ourselves getting carried away with outrage (and there’s plenty to outrage us these days), we should ask a similar question: “Is there a whole Belbury inside of you?” The Brother Lawrence quote–“Thus shall I always do . . .”–is found in The Practice the Presence of God (ca. 1650), a collection of letters and meditations.) Belbury is on the move elsewhere, as Dimble discovers when he reaches home and finds everyone in a state of high anticipation. Finally the King is on the move (this, I believe, is the first use of the name Maleldil in THS) and Dimble is wanted for an expedition.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: BATTLE BEGUN
11-1 And about time! as MacPhee might say.
The fear that Dimble, Denniston, and Jane experience, each in their own way, while searching the wood has the same root: a fear of the noumen, or spirit world, which exists alongside our own and yet is so completely different (huge, as Jane perceived it) that to touch it is something like stepping through a trap door. Dimble realizes that all ages still exist there: “it was an age, not a man, they were going to meet.” Jane’s world is still being unmade (cf. 7-1); “it now appeared that almost anything might be true.” Is she coming closer to God?
11-2 Miss Hardcastle’s account of shadowing Mark shows how little she understands the opposition. Wither and Frost have a better idea what they’re up against, but their sources are not infallible either. Their discussion once Miss Hardcastle is dismissed reveals that Frost really did have access to Jane’s mind—or his superiors did—when she dreamed about him. But shortly afterwards her mind was closed to them. Why, do you suppose? What happened to Jane around that time?
And what do they propose to do with Mark? What knowledge might they share with him that even Filostrato doesn’t know? What “desire” in him might they appeal to? (Wither’s stated wish to “to receive—to absorb—to assimilate this young man” reminds me of Uncle Screwtape.) We haven’t seen much of Frost so far, but he will come into sharper focus. He seems to be much more defined personality than Wither–until the last few paragraphs of this section, when we realize that both men have given up themselves in service to a “higher power.” What desire might have led them to do that?
11-3 Mark alone. Impending death can certainly wipe the lens of one’s perspective—if God is merciful. Mark undergoes a kind of “Pilgrim’s Regress”: looking over his life’s ambitions and seeing them for a sham . Notice the series of trivial steps, small compromises, and pygmy power plays employed to build up his ego, even from boyhood. He’s not going forward yet, but that’s because he must first go all the way back: “You must be born again.” As someone (I think is was Frederick Buechner) said, “the gospel is bad news before it’s good.” The bad news is about us, and to see ourselves as we are is amazing grace.
CHAPTER TWELVE: WET AND WINDY NIGHT
12-2 and 12-3 Recall Mr. Stone from 5-1, an organization man who got on the wrong side of the powers that be and is desperate to redeem himself. Obviously, Belbury and St. Anne’s are seeking the same prey—who will get to him first?
12-4 and 12-5 It’s interesting to compare these two conversations. Frost with his “macrobes” and Ransom with his “unities” are talking about the same supernatural reality, but in his explanation to Mark Frost takes the reductionist approach, breaking all human responses down to meaningless reflexes. Meanwhile Ransom, discussing the spiritual realm with his little band of followers, builds up a hierarchy of response reflective of God himself. Frost would decrease, Ransom would increase, the significance of human life. Does Frost know he’s talking about demons? If so, he doesn’t care; names and distinctions have become meaningless to him. But for Ransom and his band, a vague, unknown power is about to take a name—and a personality and distinctiveness they would never have imagined. The knock on the door, and what they see when the door crashes open is one of the most striking literary scenes I’ve ever read.
12-6 We know without being told that the stranger pounding on the door at St. Anne’s is Merlin himself. Any guesses as to who is ensconced at Belbury? (We saw his little campsite in 11-1.) Unintentionally, Frost and Wither provide us with some savory comic relief here. But note Wither’s comment that he knows “the look of a Master . . . One sees at once that Straik or Studdock might do; that Miss Hardcastle, with all her excellent qualities, would not.” Wither is wrong about the stranger, but right about Straik and perhaps Mark as well. But why would the Fairy not do? And “not do” for what?
12-7 We’re on Mark’s side now, or he’s on ours, but what happens almost at once? Idolatry—seeing himself as the hero—weakens his resolve and makes him easy prey. What’s different now is that for the first time he sees it: the true dimensions of the struggle. It started with self-knowledge in 11-3. Also, for the first time, he knows he can’t overcome his enemies alone. “All that could in any sense be called himself went into that cry . . .”
And the last corner has been turned. Whew!
In February of 1943 C. S. Lewis delivered three evening lectures at King’s College in Newcastle. Later that year the lectures were published in book form under the title of the third: The Abolition of Man. Over time Lewis came to regard this slender volume as his most significant work. It’s very short, only 91 pages plus an appendix. You could read it in an evening–but don’t. It’s incredibly packed: every sentence could be pondered over or discussed in an evening’s literary circle.
two visitors besides Coleridge at a certain well-known tourist attraction, one of whom said the waterfall was sublime and the other said it was pretty. The poet mentally endorsed Tourist A—“sublime” was the proper value given to such a sight, while “pretty” was wholly inadequate. But G & T informed the young readers that value statements have no objective reality: isn’t one man’s sublime another man’s pretty? Thus, statements about feelings, metaphysics, or religion are meaningless in the public square, and the sooner English schoolboys and girls learn the difference between fact and value (and disregard the latter) the better off we’ll all be.