Review
Culture
Economics
Politics
10 min read

The book Keir Starmer says you must read

Will Hutton’s This Time No Mistakes surveys the thinking that could solve Britain’s ills.

John Milbank is a theologian, philosopher and poet. A co-founder of the Radical Orthodoxy movement, he is an Emeritus Professor of the University of Nottingham.

Kier Starmer sits on a sofa, leaning forward and holding papers he is reading. Rachel Reaves sits and looks on.
Starmer and Reeves.
Labour Party

In the aftermath of a historic election, one could do worse than read Will Hutton’s second big ‘state of the nation book’, recently published. This Time No Mistakes is worth reading just for the succinctness and clarity of its politic-economic history of the United Kingdom since the industrial revolution, which it provides in its central chapters. Indeed, Keir Starmer says it is a ‘brilliant book... read it if you haven't already It may well take a sophisticated journalist to be able to do this so well: too often, even the best of academics cannot see the public wood for their private-obsessional trees.  

But it is doubly and mainly worth reading for Hutton’s prognosis of our ills and his recommendations for solving them. The new Labour government could do far worse than try to carry through Hutton’s proposals, which almost anyone of common sense and goodwill (including all Tories) ought readily to endorse. Indeed, if the next government managed to initiate even a half of what he suggests, this country could be placed back upon the right tracks.  

As to the history, which is crucial to the ultimate diagnosis: Hutton contends quite simply that Britain has been self-deceived by the peculiar nature of its industrial revolution, which was the first in history. It was largely a matter of private enterprise, partly enabled and later cushioned by empire, whose possession encouraged us to support an unqualified doctrine of free trade.  

However, all other nations, including the United States, both when they sought to catch up with the steam and rail revolution, and when they later co-pioneered the ones based on gas and electricity, and ultimately on nuclear and digital, from the outset depended much more upon state intervention to promote needed expertise, education and investment. The United Kingdom, by contrast, remained captivated by the mythical glory of its initial take-off.  

As a result, not just Conservative governments, but also Labour ones, right up to the New Labour one, and including the catastrophically misguided work of Margaret Thatcher (Hutton is admirably unqualified here) remained far too captivated by the norms of economic laissez-faire, ‘balancing the books’, a primacy of finance over production and obsessive Treasury concern with money, rather than productive wealth.  

The exceptions to this were the pre-World War one Liberal government and the post World War Two Labour one. Yet all the strong ideas implemented by the latter came from ‘New Liberal’ thinkers and not Labour ones: notably from Keynes and Beveridge. Labour on its own, by comparison, has tragically and disastrously oscillated between a desire to replace capitalism with some sort of command economy on the one hand, and simply leaving capitalism as it is, with a bit of welfare tinkering, on the other. More recently this has been seen in the contrast between Corbyn and Blair. 

It is at this juncture that Hutton proceeds to complement his political-economic diagnosis with a more purely political one. The split on the ‘progressive left’ is a catastrophe that has kept the Tories unfairly in power for much of a century. This split is both caused by and has prevented any reform of the first past the post voting system, which urgently needs to go.  

For this reason then, political economy and constitutional reform go together.  

As to the latter, we need proportional representation which would allow more reasoned debate instead of the inter-party squabble, alongside legally guaranteed local government and a different kind of informed, rather than overweening executive.  

As to the former, we need flexible planning, public-private partnership in investment, a national wealth fund, sectional trade union bargaining, the breaking up of cartels and monopolies and required social purpose and stakeholding, for every business and financial enterprise. 

One is tempted just to say hurray! But there are some historical and theoretical questions to be posed that may have hidden practical consequences.  

Better than trying to ‘balance’ the private and the collective, as if the self and society were in rivalry, is to take the more Continental (and early Blairite!) course of stressing that we are always ‘persons in relation’.

Hutton now backs Tawney besides Keynes. But do they say the same thing? For the latter, capitalism is a wild, amoral and dynamic beast that can nonetheless be politically tamed. In certain phases of the capitalist cycle only (as Hutton rightly sees) this will be about boosting demand, but in others it can mean lessening it and temporarily hurting workers.  

But Tawney, and Hutton clearly agrees with him, wanted a market economy permitting only useful and not merely acquisitive wealth. Given this ethical purpose it was for him possible for the market, aa a socialist market, to reach equilibrium, beyond extrinsic and always precarious state ‘management’.  

Just how precarious was seen in the 1970s. For Hutton, the lapse of Keynesianism in this decade was simply a matter of the triumph of the wrong ideas. To a large degree this is surely right, and yet it is not the whole story. Were it the latter, then neoliberalism might not have spread beyond Anglo-Saxon lands to Europe and South America.  

The other aspect is surely the reality that capitalism of its nature, as driven by the amoral search for profit, resists any prospect of a stable, social market. Achieving that and extending the corporatist order of negotiation between state, business and unions would have been the alternative way, instead of Hayekianism, to deal with ‘stagflation’. Rather than a competition between capital, labour and consumer for money that wasn’t there at the time, a fair division of spoils could have been consistently instituted by legally and culturally re-framing the firm and the market, something that would have immediately favoured a renewed degree of growth.  

Really, almost everything that Hutton writes indicates agreement with this sort of thing, including the recognition that of itself, capitalism is not actually dynamic (that comes from technology and culture) but tends to build up sterile finance in the interests of the few, rather than productive growth in the interests of the many. But in that case ‘ethical socialism’ is not just a set of ideals, as he tends to imply, but a mode of achievable practice.  

Similarly, a general mutualist national insurance approach to welfare, which he rightly favours, was not just a New Liberal advocacy as he claims, but deeply rooted in co-operative socialism and in Christian (especially Anglican) social thinking whose influence -- except silently in the case of Tawney -- goes unmentioned. Yet the very phrase ‘welfare state’ is Archbishop William Temple’s and Tawney’s social analysis, intended for the general public, concluded with an unabashed High Church ecclesiology! 

It is relevant here that Hutton speaks of the need to combine the ‘I’ with the ‘We’ and yet he clearly does not endorse just any old exercise of ‘individual agency’, even if he sometimes appears to do so, when defining the operation of the price mechanism as necessarily ‘wild’, after Adam Smith’s exclusion of commercial transactions from the immediate operation of social sympathy. Better than trying to ‘balance’ the private and the collective, as if the self and society were in rivalry, is to take the more Continental (and early Blairite!) course of stressing that we are always ‘persons in relation’ – at once within and outside each other, in a constant creative weave.  

Nothing could be further from Keynes’ despising of the proletariat and favouring of learned leisure, that John Ruskin’s revolutionary mystique of the artisanal. 

There are two deeper questions about Hutton’s approach. First, his excessive ‘idealism’, as with his analysis of the Seventies switch, may still underrate the difficulty of overcoming the power of entrenched interests – the need indeed not so much for class, as for popular warfare against plutocracy.  

Secondly, he tends to underplay a theoretical tension between secular and materialist thinkers, including New Liberals, on the one hand, and religious and Idealist thinkers like the first ‘New Liberal’, T.H Green on the other.  

The latter was much more like Alasdair Macintyre or Michael Sandel than like John Rawls, as Hutton claims: for by human ‘self-realisation’ he meant the ‘positive liberty’ of pursuing the objectively true ends of human flourishing: religious contemplation, artistic creation of genuine beauty, active citizen participation.  

By contrast, the secular New Liberals, including Keynes, tended to reduce the ethical good to the negative liberty of rights, private friendship and utility – often leading them to favour eugenics and to indulge in racism. Nothing could be further from Keynes’ despising of the proletariat and favouring of learned leisure, that John Ruskin’s revolutionary mystique of the artisanal.  

Hutton tends to express surprise that a Tory like Ruskin, or a reactionary like Carlyle, should have favoured the cause of the worker – and indeed in Ruskin’s case also espoused ‘communism’, as Hutton elides from the picture. But this is to fail to see how Tory Radicalism and even paternalism is actually a third strand in the kind of transformative thinking that we continue to need, was always a crucial influence on Labour and was a crucial element of the postwar settlement.  

If these thinkers indeed favoured ‘hierarchy’, then that was in part because they wanted more interpersonal and mediated chains of command, rather than brutally centralised and mechanical ones. Surely Hutton wants that also, as his excellent reservations about the use of Artificial Intelligence would indicate? 

There is a recognition that economic individualism usually ‘on the right’ is actually matched and encouraged by a cultural individualism usually ‘on the left’. 

This is perhaps the limit of talking in terms of ‘progressive’ versus ‘conservative’. Hutton harks back to the norms of the Enlightenment. Yet, as Richard Whatmore has shown, all the great British enlightenment thinkers came to think that pure enlightenment was failing.  

They saw its anti-religious fanaticism stance as challenged by the rise of new secular, nationalist and direct democratic fanaticisms, as supremely with the French Revolution. By ‘populism’, as we might now say! 

But they also already recognised that the breakdown of a rational peace had been encouraged by excessive consumer greed and by the over-implication of commerce in state borrowing (whose pre-enabling of industry in Britain, Hutton does not mention) and so also in war and empire.  

It was exactly in this context that the enlightenment thinker Edmund Burke began to consider the virtues of the longer-term embedding of enlightenment in Christianity and the importance of the medieval ‘gothic’ legacy of a corporate order binding social body to social body, rather than individual to individual via contract, mediated by the market and backed up by the state.  

In Burke’s wake, for example with the radical William Cobbett, much of the Nineteenth Century critique of economism, to which Hutton is the heir, was of a ‘Romantic’ and often ‘neo-medieval’ rather than purely enlightenment cast. (Hutton at times wrongly reads medieval ‘feudalism’ as ‘absolutist’ – a specifically early modern phenomenon.) This matters, because this tradition contains a stronger recognition that the centralising state (which the Enlightenment favoured as a substitute for the Church) can be just as alienating and anti-social as the uprooting market – even if, as Karl Polanyi later saw, one needs the power of the state today in order to restore the primacy of the social and of inter-human fellowship.  

Within the same current, there is a recognition that economic individualism usually ‘on the right’ is actually matched and encouraged by a cultural individualism usually ‘on the left’. And here Hutton is perhaps inconsistent – he definitely sees this, mentioning the dubious overriding of the universal by identitarian concerns,  and yet also recognises it somewhat uneasily, as it challenges certain ‘progressivist’ assumptions. 

 As a result, he rather disallows the validity of some populist concerns – ironically rather like the incomprehension of the older enlightenment in the face of the new revolutionary era. For example, concerns with the normative primacy of the heterosexual family and the enabling of family and children, with regional and national identity, with the academic ‘woke’ trashing of the entire Western legacy, with the exploitation and cultural disruption of excessive immigration, with ecological policies that simply override current human needs while doing little to assist the future of nature.  

The danger of these partial blind spots could be a continued failure of the roughly ‘communitarian’ Left, or the sensible Right, to win over the mass of the people to their cause. For they must be won over if not just the United Kingdom, but humanity as a whole, is to have a decent future.  

Towards building that future, no one has contributed more, or more valiantly, than Will Hutton.  

  

 

Short story
Culture
16 min read

The Rat: a new short story

Climbing from containment

Theodore is author of the historical fiction series The Wanderer Chronicles.

A barred window sits in a dark brick wall.
Francesco Ungaro on Unsplash.

Every day he wakes up, he feels something is wrong. 

Is it this place? Or is it him? 

He cannot say. Only that this sensation of wrongness feels a lot like… fear. Like a kind of haunting.  

Who am I?  

Memories with the answer to this question visit his mind like ghosts in the night, but by morning time - if you can call it morning - they have slipped away. Instead the Voice answers for him.  

He calls it morning, but it is only the time when he wakes. The light around him changes little with the passing of time. Always he is cocooned in a soupy gloom. The air is stale and still, a little damp, and yet a trace of sweetness is mixed in with the miasma which has, at times, persuaded him this is comfortable, even pleasant. At least tolerable. The walls around him are the only constant. No, there is also a door - he has seen its hinges but he knows it is locked fast because the Voice has told him so. Apart from these, there is little else to look upon except what the Voice sometimes shows him through an opening which it calls the Window. It opens only when there is something to see, otherwise it too is shut fast.  

The chains of course are another constant, he remembers. He feels their weight when he moves about. And for this reason, he doesn’t trouble himself to move far. Some days, not at all. They make him feel weary almost before he has begun. It is useless anyway; the Voice has told him. It is his lot to exist in this place, so he can only make the best of it for whatever time he has left. It is the lot of the Voice to look after him. 

He lifts his head, sniffs the stale air, scratches at an ear. 

At once, the Voice sounds from its aperture high on the cell wall. ’Good morning, Rat! How are we today?’ 

‘Same,’ he mumbles into his paws. 

‘Why, that is excellent! The same is good. The same is the best one can ever expect. The same is life.’ 

‘So you have told me.’ 

‘Because it is the truth. And however ugly or grim, the truth is never to be shunned. Have I not always told you this?’ 

For a longish moment, the Rat does not answer. 

‘I said: have I not always told you this?’ 

  

‘You have,’ the Rat murmurs. 

‘Honestly, sometimes I wonder whether you actually listen to all that I have to say. Else I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. But at least one of us must do their duty. So, to be sure, Rat, I had better remind you once more, just as I do with all those under my care.’ 

The Voice begins to speak in that quick, forceful manner the Rat has come to accept. As if nothing it says is above the mundane and therefore worth dwelling upon, and yet all is also irrefutably and obviously true.   

The Rat knows the litany well.  

First, and above all, he is a rat. And as a rat, he belongs in this dank, dark place. It is where rats of his kind have always dwelled. Everyone knows rats carry disease. Everyone knows rats have no useful value. No purpose, no meaning, and therefore they should have no voice, above a nasty little squeaking, because after all, no one wants to hear what a rat has to say. The Maker has ordered it so.   

‘Thus is the verdict,’ the Voice concludes. ‘And yet, in his mercy, the Maker tolerates your continued existence. That is why he created this place and appointed me guardian over you. To care for you, even though it is more than you deserve. To feed you enough to keep your belly full, even though such provision comes at great expense. And to keep you entertained, even though, Maker knows, such effort is a downright extravagance.’ 

The Voice comes to the end of its discourse. And as always, the moment it is finished, a small shutter opens in the most foetid corner of the place and a platter of food is shoved through. The shutter closes at once with a snap. 

Bracing himself to the weight of his chains, the Rat crawls over to the platter and has a sniff. It is the same as every day. A bolus of food which in the dim shadows forms no distinct shape or colour. Its texture is neither hard nor soft. It gives off no smell that could appeal or repel. He eats it down, as he does every day. The first taste of it upon his tongue is sweet - the promise of something good. But by the time he swallows it down, the sweetness is gone and what remains is a solid feeling in his belly, at once heavy and bitter. The Voice has told him this is Nourishment. This keeps him alive - which is his only principle, his only goal. And so he knows tomorrow he will eat again. 

The platter lies empty for a while; it will be taken when he sleeps. Next will come the Window. Each day he has not long to wait. The Voice tells him this is so that his mind is not inert. ‘For an empty mind is a dangerous thing,’ the Voice has said, ‘into which all kind of falsities are wont to slip. It is for me to protect you from such hazards. By filling it.’ 

The Rat moves over towards the Window. He cannot see the Window; he cannot see very much at all. But by instinct now, he knows where it will appear. He almost knows what it will show. Each day is different - yes, the only difference in his drab world - but there is a kind of regularity to what it shows, too. And in any case, it leaves him with the same feeling whatever he sees within its frame. Some things draw from him the flickers of excitement, others might make him laugh if only the voice the Maker gave him were capable of forming that sound. Still others evoke in him something like desire, and yet even this only swells to a blunt sort of prurience, an itch barely worth scratching. Mostly though, he feels a kind of frustration which almost rises to anger. But not anger that demands action. Just enough to feel a slight twist in his heart which never fully unwinds. And so his heart is by now quite contorted. And this frustration is the feeling he is left with each day. This frustration is at least a feeling. And as the Voice has told him: ‘Feeling is important. Feeling means you are alive.’ 

But the Rat is mistaken. Because this day is not the same as all the others after all: 

Before the Window appears, all at once he hears another sound. A faint scratching coming from the door. He looks over - although of course, in the gloom, he cannot expect to see much. But to his surprise, he does see, quite clearly, a small creature squeezing itself, with some considerable effort, under the foot of the door. The outlines of it are distinct. As if it carries its own light with it, since nothing else within the Rat’s cell could illumine it so well. It is a mouse. 

Bold as you like, the mouse comes right up to where he lies. And after regarding him with bright, blinking eyes for a moment or two, it says: ‘Wake up.’  

‘I am awake,’ replies the Rat. 

‘No, indeed, you are not, my friend. I say again, awake!’ This time the mouse speaks with real force, in a voice that belies his little size. 

The Rat is now confused as well as surprised by this intrusion. ’Who are you? What are you doing here?’ 

‘I have been sent to help you. Who I am is of no import when laid against who you are.’ 

‘What can you mean? I am of no importance. I am a rat and this is where I belong. It is you, Mouse, who needs explaining.’ 

‘No, no. I say again, no!’ 

‘No?’ 

‘You are no rat. That is why I am sent to you.’ 

‘What folly is this? I am no rat?’ And for the first time, he experiences the undoubted pleasure of real indignation. ‘Are you mad? Have you lost your senses? See, here are my paws. There is my tail.’ 

And yet, even as he proffers them, he is surprised to see the shadow of his smooth little hands seem now not quite so smooth and altogether swollen, nor is the length or girth of his hairless tail quite as he remembers it. But he dismisses these as mere tricks of the gloom and his own agitation at so abrupt and strange an interruption. 

‘If I told you what you truly are,’ answers the mouse, ‘you would neither understand nor believe me. Only this must you accept: you do not belong here. And where you do belong desperately needs you. So I have come to wake you up.’ 

‘Again this idea that I am asleep,’ returns the Rat, scratching confusedly at his nose. ‘As if you are some apparition in a dream—‘ 

‘Not asleep, but enchanted,’ interrupts the mouse. ‘Enthralled and silenced. It is your voice that is needed, and your heart.’ 

‘My voice?’ squeaks the Rat. ‘What possible use can anyone have for my voice? And anyway I am not silenced. I could speak as much as I wish. I just have nothing much to say.’ 

The mouse seems distracted then. His little ears twitch and turn. ‘Quickly, we have not time to bandy words. Only rise and follow me.’ 

‘Follow you where?’ scoffs the Rat. ‘See, I’m thrice the size of you and cannot go by the way you came in. This cell is sealed to me. Besides which, these chains—’ 

‘You will see,’ urges the mouse, impatient with his protestations. ‘The door is not truly barred. Those chains do not truly hold you. Indeed there is no prison. I say again, rise. Come and you will see all that you are meant for and all that is meant for you.’ 

But before any more can be said or done, a sound suddenly fills the dingy place: ‘Is that you, Mouse, you troublesome little beast?’ It is the Voice - and far sharper and angrier than the Rat has ever heard it.  

The Rat shrinks back against the wall. But the mouse lifts his nose defiantly. ‘It is not I who is trouble-maker here, but you, Spell-Spinner. Truth-Twister. Usurper.’ 

‘Usurper?’ The Voice chuckles, a languorous, malevolent sound. ‘Is not this my kingdom? Are not you the intruder here?’ 

‘You have no kingdom and no authority but which you have stolen through your lies and deception.’ 

  

‘Lies? Deception? I tell no lies. I offer no deception. It is you and your…your vermin kind who stir up trouble inviting people to believe that which is not. You conjure pretty dreams to lure weak minds into your thrall out of the mere imaginings of a diseased brain.’ 

‘You lie as easily as you breathe,’ returns the mouse, glaring about him.  

‘Come now, where is the lie?’ soothes the Voice from its aperture. 

‘All around us. This very place.’ 

‘Nonsense. This is real. I only show those who dwell here what is true, the better for them to accept their reality. I - we - who are given charge of this place know that the first sign of a mind turning to disease is the thought that there must be something else. That this is not exactly where they belong and who they are—’ 

The mouse appears to lose patience then and turns back to the Rat. ‘Listen not to this voice a moment longer, but harken only to me. Awake, arise. Follow me. Come, we must away.’ 

And so surprised at the steady authority in the mouse’s words, the Rat find himself uncoiling from his cringing corner and indeed getting to his feet, so that he begins to follow the mouse towards the door, despite the weight of his chains, and though he knows it is bolted and barred. They are nearly at it when another voice, much closer, cries out of the shadows: ‘Stop where you are, Rat!’ 

Terrified, for an instant, the Rat obeys. He looks back and see a far larger shadow moving in the gloom now. And before he can even wonder whence it has appeared, the shadow leaps and in two quick bounds overtakes the two little rodents and stands between them and the door.  

The Rat sees now it is a cat. An especially large and especially black cat, with long silvered whiskers and a coat that is soft and shining as velvet. 

‘I warned you what would happen if you came back, little beast,’ the cat says, addressing the mouse. ‘There is none more dangerous nor more harmful in all my kingdom than you.’ 

The mouse, brave little creature, stands back upon its hind legs, drawing itself up to its fullest height, which is by no means saying much against the overbearing presence of the cat. ‘It is not your kingdom,’ hisses the mouse in defiance. ‘And even though you strike me down, others will come in my place.’ 

‘Oh, I hope so,’ says the cat, an insidious smile in his voice. ‘For I do so enjoy a little nap on a full belly.’ 

And with that, the cat pounces. There is a brief scuffle in the gloom, a solitary squeal, then the cat is sitting back on its haunches. For a moment he paws at a shapeless lump on the ground before him. Then with sudden relish, he falls upon the wretched mouse, gobbling it up from nose to tail until there is no sign that it has ever been there. But for the flicker of the cat’s pink tongue, licking the last of its blood from his lips. 

Sated, he turns back to the Rat.  

‘Sometimes, Rat, it becomes necessary for you to see me as I really am,’ he says, his tone languid now. ‘But that is not altogether regrettable. Now you can see I am telling the truth. Now you can have no doubt. You see that I, at least, am real. Real enough to rid us both of that meddlesome brute.’ 

‘But…but what he said,’ the Rat dares to whisper, though still gripped with shock, and not a little terror, at the strange turn of events. ‘Can there be nothing to them? A madman may see a distortion. But only a distortion of something that is there—’ 

‘Listen to me,’ the cat quickly hissed, standing over the Rat. ‘And heed me well. Have I not thought only of your good, Rat? Do I not give you food to ease your hunger? Do you not live secure and well in this place? By the stars, I even keep you entertained! Is all this not enough for you? How would a rat like you fare in any other place, even if such a place did exist?’  

To this, the Rat has no answer. The cat gives a little chuckle. ‘Quite so. Now, the little mouse is done with. And with him, his mad imaginings. We must stop them from infecting any others, for it will only lead to distress and dissatisfaction. This is not my wish for you,’ the cat purrs silkily, and as he does, a sort of drowsiness starts to creep over the Rat. ‘Be happy with your lot. He who can master this can master all. Even you, Rat, can be master of this life, if you do.’ 

The cat drops to its paws, its yellow eyes now level with the Rat’s, set in a glare as hard as stone. His nose so close, the Rat can smell the mouse’s blood upon his breath. ‘Forget the mouse. When all is said, he was nothing but a dainty little morsel for me to eat.’ 

Something in the cruelty of the purring voice just then, in the way the cat licks its lips lasciviously once more - something in the memory of the little mouse who, for all his strange urgings, clearly meant kindness towards him - stirs in the Rat’s heart more than regret, more even than fear. A sudden, white hot rage grips him dispelling in an instant the drowsiness that has come over him. And before he knows quite what he is doing, the Rat raises his little paw and swipes the cat smack across his pink nose with all the force he can muster.  

He knows it can be but a futile gesture which will only bring him trouble, but to his amazement, the cat is flung across the cell, hitting the wall with such force that he falls limp and unmoving to the floor. For a moment, bewildered, the Rat thinks the cat is dead, or else he himself is dreaming. But then slowly the cat picks itself up, shakes itself, casts him a final look of slavish terror, then flees, disappearing through some unseen hatch as quickly as he had come. 

The Rat looks down in wonder at his paw, mystified at the strength in it. 

And yet, what he sees now is not the familiar pink pads of a rat’s paw, with the fragile little nails that he is used to, but something altogether bigger, stronger, fiercer. Covered in hair, with black claws long as his tail. Astonished, he gets to his feet. And so doing, his whole body feels heavier, and yet holds within itself a new strength to move. The weight of his chains, he notices not at all. 

He turns now to the door, suddenly determined to discover what lies beyond its bolts and bars. But when he goes to it and raises his paw to push against it and test its resistance, his paw goes right through it. There is no resistance. There is nothing there. And all at once, the walls and floor and low cramped ceiling of his cell melt away until he finds himself standing in a new sort of darkness. One that feels expansive, that has no limits.  

No, not quite darkness. There is a source of dim light now giving some shape to the things around him. It seems far off though, and high. He wants to go to it. He takes a step forward, and as he does, he is suddenly overcome with a violent choking. He drops his head, gasping for breath, his great back heaving with strain as something jagged and hard rises in his gorge. And next moment, he is vomiting up something into the soft ground at his feet. At once he feels lighter, he feels his breath coming more freely in thick rasping pants. There at his feet lies an ugly object indeed. It is a kind of misshapen metal ball covered in a multitude of sharp spikes, and he wonders in disgust that such a thing could be lodged unknown in his throat for so long. 

But it is out now, and he feels all the better for it. 

Now he walks towards the faint glow above and beyond him. The ground is soft beneath his paws.  He seems to be climbing through a landscape which he can see but dimly at first. There is a great openness above him. In the growing light, shapes take form and with them the memory of things long, long forgotten. Maybe things he never really knew but only dreamed of once. Alien and yet at once familiar. Trees and rocks and other forms stirring in the gloom. There is much he cannot see, but he is not afraid. Indeed he feels no fear at all now, only a kind of growing expectation, a growing certainty of what he must do.  

And so he climbs and climbs. 

At last he sees the line of a ridge above him. He sets himself to the task of scaling this last, highest hill. And though he walks in shadow still, the sky above him is filling with light. It turns in colour from grey to white to coral pink. And as he pads the last few paces to the summit, a feeling swells inside of him, a long hidden explosion of sound and emotion. The very cry of his heart. 

He is there now. He looks out across an endless landscape below him. 

And as the first rays of a mighty dawn race over the distant purple hills, the lion’s roar rings out across the land. At the sound of it, all the sleeping animals awake and prick up their ears. 

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