The Bright Messenger

by Algernon Blackwood

  CHAPTER IX

  The body I'm in and using is 22, as they call it, and from a man namedMason, a geologist, I receive sums of money, regularly paid, with whichI live. They call it "live." A roof and walls protect me, who do notneed protection; my body, which it irks, is covered with wool and clothand stuff, fitting me as bark fits a tree and yet not part of me; myfeet, which love the touch of earth and yearn for it, are cased in deaddried skin called leather; even my head and hair, which crave the sunand wind, are covered with another piece of dead dried skin, shapedlike a shell, but an ugly shell, in which, were it shaped otherwise,the wind and rustling leaves might sing with flowers.

  Before 22 I remember nothing--nothing definite, that is. I opened myeyes in a soft, but not refreshing case standing on four iron legs,and well off the ground, and covered with coarse white coverings piledthickly on my body. It was a bed. Slabs of transparent stuff kept outthe living sunshine for which I hungered; thick solid walls shut offthe wind; no stars or moon showed overhead, because an enormous lid hidevery bit of sky. No dew, therefore, lay upon the sheets. I smelt noearth, no leaves, no flowers. No single natural sound entered exceptthe chattering of dirty sparrows which had lost its freshness. I was ina hospital.

  One comely figure alone gave me a little joy. It was soft and slimand graceful, with a smell of fern and morning in its hair, thoughthat hair was lustreless and balled up in ugly lumps, with strips ofthin metal in it. They called it nurse and sister. It was the firstmoving thing I saw when my eyes opened on my limited and enclosedsurroundings. My heart beat quicker, a flash of thin joy came upin me. I had seen something similar before somewhere; it remindedme, I mean, of something I had known elsewhere; though but a shabby,lifeless, clumsy copy of this other glorious thing. Though not real, itstirred this faint memory of reality, so that I caught at the skirtsof moonlight, stars and flowers reflected in a forest pool where mycompanion played for long periods of happiness between our work. Theperfume and the eyes did that. I watched it for a bit, as it movedaway, came close and looked at me. When the eyes met mine, a wave oflife, but of little life, surged faintly through me.

  They were dim and pitiful, these eyes; mournful, unlit, unseeing. Thestars had set in them; dull shadows crowded. They were so small. Theywere hungry too. They were unsatisfied. For some minutes it puzzledme, then I understood. That was the word--unsatisfied. Ah, but I couldalter that! I could comfort, help, at any rate. My strength, thoughhorribly clipped and blocked, could manage a little thing like that! Mysmaller rhythms I could put into it.

  The eyes, the smile, the whole soft comely bundle, so pitifully hungryand unsatisfied, I rose and seized, pressing it close inside my owngreat arms, and burying it all against my breast. I crushed it, butvery gently, as I might crush a sapling. My lips were amid the fernyhair. I breathed upon it willingly, glad to help.

  It was a poor unfinished thing, I felt at once, soft and yielding whereit should have been resilient and elastic as fresh turf; the perfumehad no body, it faded instantly; there was so little life in it.

  But, as I held it in my big embrace, smothering its hunger as best Icould within my wave of being, this bundle, this poor pitiful bundle,screamed and struggled to get free. It bit and scratched and utteredsounds like those squeaks the less swift creatures make when theswifter overtake them.

  I was too surprised to keep it to me; I relaxed my hold. The instant Idid so the figure, thus released, stood upright like a young birch thewind sets free. The figure looked alive. The hair fell loose, untidily,the puny face wore colour, the eyes had fire in them. I saw that fire.It was a message. Memory stirred faintly in me.

  "Ah!" I cried. "I've helped you anyhow a little!"

  The scene that followed filled me with such trouble and bewildermentthat I cannot recall exactly what occurred. The figure seemed tospit at me, yet not with grace and invitation. There was no sign ofgratitude. I was entirely misunderstood, it seemed. Bells rang, as thefigure rushed to the door and flung it open. It called aloud; similar,though quite lifeless figures came in answer and filled the room. Adoctor--Devonham, they called him--followed them. I was most carefullyexamined in a dozen curious ways that tickled my skin a little sothat I smiled. But I lay quite still and silent, watching the wholeperformance with a confusion in my being that baffled my comprehendingwhat was going on. Most of the figures were frightened.

  Then the doctor gave place to Fillery, whose name has rhythm.

  To him I spoke at once:

  "I wished to comfort and revive her," I told him. "She is so starved. Iwas most gentle. She brings a message only."

  He made no reply, but gazed at me with the corners of his mouth bothtwitching, and in his eyes--ah, his eyes had more of the sun in them--aflash of something that had known fire, at least, if it had not kept it.

  "My God! I worship thee," I murmured at the glimpse of the Power I mustown as Master and creator of my being. "Even when thou art playful, Iadore thee and obey."

  Then four other figures, shaped like the doctor but wholly mechanical,a mere blind weight operating through them, held my arms and legs. Notthe least desire to move was in me luckily. I say "luckily," because,had I wished it, I could have flung them through the roof, blown downthe little walls, caught up a dozen figures in my arms, and rushedforth with them towards the Powers of Fire and Wind to which I belonged.

  Could I? I felt that I could. The sight of the true fire, small thoughit was, in the comely figure's and the doctor's eyes, had set me intouch again with my home and origin. This touch I had somehow lost;I had been "ill," with what they called nervous disorder and injuredreason. The lost touch was now restored. But, luckily, as I said, therewas no desire in me to set free these other figures, to help them inany way, after the reception my first kindly effort had experienced. Ilay quite still, held by these four grotesque and puny mechanisms. Thecomely one, with the others similar to her, had withdrawn. I felt verykindly towards them all, but especially towards the doctor, Fillery,who had shown that he knew my deity and origin. None of them were worthmuch trouble, anyhow. I felt that too. A mild, sweet-toned contempt wasin me.

  "Dangerous," was a word I caught them whispering as they went. Ilaughed a little. The four faces over me made odd grimaces, tighteningtheir lips, and gripping my legs and arms with greater effort. Thedoctor--Fillery--noticed it.

  "Easy, remember," he addressed the four. "There's really no need tohold. It won't recur." I nodded. We understood one another. And, with asmile at me, he left the room, saying he would come back after a shortinterval. A link with my source, a brother as it were, went with him. Iwas lonely....

  I began to hum songs to myself, little fragments of a great naturalmusic I had once known but lost, and I noticed that the four figures,as I sang, relaxed their grip of my limbs considerably. To tell thetruth, I forgot that they were holding me; their grip, anyhow, wasbut a thread I could snap without the smallest effort. The songswere happiness in me. Upon free leaping rhythms I careered with anexhilarating rush of liberty; all about space I soared and sank; Iwas picked up, flung far, riding the crest of immense waves of orderlyvibration that delighted me. I let myself go a bit, let my voice out,I mean. No effort accompanied my singing. It was automatic, likebreathing almost. It was natural to me. These rhythmical sounds and thepatterns that they wove in space were the outlines of forms it was mywork to build. This expressed my nature. Only my power was blocked andstifled in this confining body. The fire and air which were my tools Icould not control. I have forgotten--forgotten----!

  "Got a voice, ain't he?" observed one of the figures admiringly.

  "Lunies can do 'most anything they have a mind to."

  "Grand Opera isn't it."

  "Yes," mentioned the fourth, "but he'll lift the roof off presently.We'd better stop him before there's any trouble."

  I stopped of myself, however: their remarks interested me. Also while Ihad been singing, although I called it humming only, they had graduallylet go of me, and were now sitting down on my bed and stari
ng withquite pleasant faces. All their dim eight eyes were fixed on me. Theirforms were not built well.

  "Where did you get that from, Guv'nor?" asked the one who had spokenfirst. "Can you give me the name of it?"

  The sound of his own voice was like the scratching of a pin after theenormous rhythm that now ceased.

  "Ain't printed, is it?" he went on, as I stared, not understanding whathe meant. "I've got a sister at the Halls," he explained. "She'd make ahit with that kind of thing. Gave me quite a twist inside to hear it,"he added, turning to the others.

  The others agreed solemnly with dull stupid faces. I lay and listenedto their talk. I longed to help them. I had forgotten how.

  "A bit churchy, I thought it," said one. "But, I confess, it stirred meup."

  "Churchy or not, it's the stuff," insisted the first.

  "Oh, it's the stuff to give 'em, right enough." And they looked at meadmiringly again. "Where did you get it, if I may ask?" replied NumberOne in a more respectful tone. His face looked quite polite. The lipsstretched, showing yellow teeth. It was his smile. But his eyes werea little more real. Oh, where was my fire? I could have built theoutline better so that he was real and might express far more. I haveforgotten----!

  "I hear it," I told him, "because I'm in it. It's all about me. Itnever stops. It's what we build with----"

  Number One seemed greatly interested.

  "Hear it, do you? Why, that's odd now. You see"--he looked at hiscompanions apologetically, as though he knew they would not believehim--"my father was like that. He heard his music, he always used tosay, but we laughed at him. He was a composer by trade. Oh, his stuffwas printed too. Of course," he added, "there's musical talent in thefamily," as though that explained everything. He turned to me again."Give us a little more, Mister--if you don't object, that is," headded. And his face was soft as he said it. "Only gentle like--if youdon't mind."

  "Yes, keep it down a bit," another put in, looking anxiously in thedirection of the closed door. He patted the air with his open palm,slowly, carefully, as though he patted an animal that might rise andfly at him.

  I hummed again for them, but this time with my lips closed. The wavesof rhythm caught me up and away. I soared and flew and dropped and roseagain upon their huge coloured crests. Curtains and sheets of quietflame in palest gold flared shimmering through the sound, while windsthat were full of hurricanes and cyclones swept down to lift the fireand dance with it in spirals. The perfume of great flowers rose. Therewere flowers everywhere, and stars shone through it all like showers ofgold. Ah! I began to remember something. It was flowers and stars aswell as human forms we worked to build....

  But I kept the fire from leaping into actual flame; the mighty windsI held back. Even thus pent and checked, their powerful volume madethe atmosphere shake and pulse about us. Only I could not control themnow.... With an effort I came back, came down, as it were, and sawthe funny little faces staring at me with opened eyes and mouths, andyellow teeth, pale gums, their skins gone whitish, their figures rigidwith their tense emotion. They were so poorly made, the patterns soimperfect. The new respect in their manner was marked plainly. Suddenlyall four turned together towards the door. I stopped. The doctor hadreturned. But it was Fillery again. I liked the feel of him.

  "He wanted to sing, sir, so we let him. It seemed to relieve him abit," they explained quickly and with an air of helpless apology.

  "Good, good," said the doctor. "Quite good. Any normal expression thatbrings relief is good." He dismissed them. They went out, casting backat me expressions of puzzled thanks and interest. The door closedbehind them. The doctor seated himself beside me and took my hand. Iliked his touch. His hand was alive, at any rate, although within myown it felt rather like a dying branch or bunch of leaves I grasped.The life, if thin, was real.

  "Where's the rest of it?" I asked him, meaning the music. "I used tohave it all. It's left me, gone away. What's cut it off?"

  "You're not cut off really," he said gently. "You can always getinto it again when you really need it." He gazed at me steadily fora minute, then said in his quiet voice--a full, nice tone with windthrough a forest running in it: "Mason.... Dr. Mason...."

  He said no more, but watched me. The name stirred something in me Icould not get at quite. I could not reach down to it. I was troubled bya memory I could not seize.

  "Mason," I repeated, returning his strong gaze. "What--who--was Mason?And where?" I connected the name with a sense of liberty, also withgreat winds and pools of fire, with great figures of golden skin andradiant faces, with music, too, the music that had left me.

  "You've forgotten for the moment," came the deep running voice I liked."He looked after you for twenty years. He gave his life for you. Heloved you. He loved your mother. Your father was his friend."

  "Has he gone--gone back?"

  "He's dead."

  "I can get after him though," I said, for the name touched me with asense of lost companionship I wanted, though the reference to my fatherand mother left me cold. "I can easily catch him up. When I move withmy wind and fire, the fastest things stand still." My own speed, onceI was free again, I knew outpaced easily the swiftest bird, outpacedlight itself.

  "Yes," agreed the doctor; "only he doesn't want that now. You canalways catch him up when the time comes. Besides, he's waiting for youanyhow."

  I knew that was true. I sank back comforted upon the stuffy pillows andlay silent. This tinkling chatter wearied me. It was like tricklingwind. I wanted the flood of hurricanes, the pulse of storms. Mybuilding, shaping powers, my great companions--oh! where were they?

  "He taught you himself, taught you all you know," I heard the tinklinggo on again, "but he kept you away from life, thinking it was best. Hewas afraid for you, afraid for others too. He kept you in the woodsand mountains where, as he believed, you could alone express yourselfand so be happy. A hundred times, in babyhood and early childhood, younearly died. He nursed you back to life. His own life he renounced. Nowhe is dead. He has left you all his money."

  He paused. I said no word. Faint memories passed through my mind, butnothing I could hold and seize. The money I did not understand at all,except that it was necessary.

  "He thought at first that you could not possibly live to manhood. Tohis surprise you survived everything--illness, accident, disaster ofevery sort and kind. Then, as you grew up, he realized his mistake.Instead of keeping you away from life, he ought to have introduced youto it and explained it--as I and Devonham are now trying to do. Youcould not live for ever alone in woods and mountains; when he was gonethere would be no one to look after you and guide you."

  The trickling of wind went on and on. I hardly listened to it. Hedid it for his own pleasure, I suppose. It pleased and soothed himpossibly. Yet I remembered every syllable. It was a small detail tokeep fresh when my real memory covered the whole planet.

  "Before he died, he recognized his mistake and faced the positionboldly. It was some years before the end; he was hale and heartystill, yet the end, he knew, was in sight. While the power was stillstrong in him, therefore, he did the only thing left to him to do. Heused his great powers. He used suggestion. He hypnotized you, tellingyou to forget--from the moment of his death, but not before--forgeteverything---- It was only partially successful."

  The door opened, the comely figure glanced in, then vanished.

  "She wants more help from me," I interrupted the monotonous tinklinginstantly, for pity stirred in me again as I saw her eager, hungry andunsatisfied little eyes. "Call her back. I feel quite willing. It isone of the lower forms we made. I can improve it."

  Dr. Fillery, as he was called, looked at me steadily, his mouthtwitching at the corners as before, a flash of fire flitting throughhis eyes. The fire made me like and trust him; the twitching, too, Iliked, for it meant he knew how absurd he was. Yet he was bigger thanthe other figures.

  "You can't do that," he said, "you mustn't," and then laughed outright."It isn't done, you know--here."

 
; "Why not, sir?" I asked, using the terms the figures used. "I feel likethat."

  "Of course, you do. But all you feel can't be expressed exceptat the proper times and places. The consent of the other partyalways is involved," he went on slowly, "when it's a question ofexpressing--anything you feel."

  This puzzled me, because in this particular instance the other partyhad asked me with her eyes to comfort her. I told him this. He laughedstill more. Caught by the sound--it was just like wind passing amongtall grasses on a mountain ridge--I forgot what he was talking aboutfor the moment. The sound carried me away towards my own rhythms.

  "You've got such amazing insight," he went on tinkling to himself, forI heard, although I did not listen. "You read the heart too easily, tooquickly. You must learn to hide your knowledge." The laughter whichran with the words then ended, and I came back to the last thing I haddefinitely listened to--"express, expressing," was the phrase he used.

  "You told me that self-expression is the purpose for which I'mhere----?"

  "I believe it is," he agreed, more solemnly.

  "Only sometimes, then?"

  "Exactly. If that expression involves another in pain or trouble ordiscomfort----"

  "Ah! I have to choose, you mean. I have to know first what the otherfeels about it."

  I began to understand better. It was a game. And all games delighted me.

  "You may put it roughly so, yes," he explained, "you're very quick.I'll give you a rule to guide you," he went on. I listened with aneffort; this tinkling soon wearied me; I could not think long or much;my way, it seemed, was feeling. "Ask yourself always how what you dowill affect another," Dr. Fillery concluded. "That's a safe rule foryou."

  "That is of children," I observed. We stared at each other a moment."Both sides keep it?" I asked.

  "Childish," he agreed, "it certainly is. Both sides, yes, keep it."

  I sighed, and the sigh seemed to rise from my very feet, passingthrough my whole being. He looked at me most kindly then, asking why Isighed.

  "I used to be free," I told him. "This is not liberty. And why are wenot all free together?"

  "It is liberty for two instead of only for one," he said, "and so, inthe long run, liberty for all."

  "So that's where they are," I remarked, but to myself and not to him."Not further than that." For what I had once known, but now, it seemed,forgotten, was far beyond such a foolish little game. We had livedwithout such tiny tricks. We lived openly and unafraid. We worked inharmony. We lived. Yes--but who was "we"? That was the part I hadforgotten.

  "It's the growth and development of civilization," I heard the littledrift of wind go whistling thinly, "and it won't take you long tobecome quite civilized at this rate, more civilized, indeed, thanmost--with your swift intelligence and lightning insight."

  "Civilization," I repeated to myself. Then I looked at his eyes whichhid carefully in their depths somewhere that tiny cherished flame Iloved. "Your ways are really very simple," I said. "It's all easyenough to learn. It is so small."

  "A man studying ants," he tinkled, "finds them small, but far fromsimple. You may find complications later. If so, come to me."

  I promised him, and the fire gleamed faintly in his eyes a moment. "Heentrusted you to me. Your mother," he added softly, "was the woman heloved."

  "Civilization," I repeated, for the word set going an odd new rhythm inme that I rather liked, and that tired me less than the other things hesaid. "What is it then? You are a Race, you told me."

  "A Race of human beings, of men and women developing----"

  "The comely ones?"

  "Are the women. Together we make up the Race."

  "And civilization?"

  "Is realizing that we are a community, learning, growing, all itsmembers living for the others as well as for themselves."

  Dr. Fillery told me then about men and women and sex, how children aremade, and what enormous and endless work was necessary merely to keepthem all alive and clothed and sheltered before they could accomplishanything else of any sort at all. Half the labour of the majority wassimply to keep alive at all. It was an ugly little system he described.Much I did not hear, because my thinking powers gave out. Some of itgave me an awful feeling he called pain. The confusion and imperfectionseemed beyond repair, even beyond the worth of being part of it, ofbelonging to it at all. Moreover, the making of children, withoutwhich the whole thing must end, gave me spasms of irritation he calledlaughter. Only the Comely Ones, and what he told me of them, made mewant to sing.

  "The men," I said, "but do they see that it is ugly and ludicrousand----"

  "Comic," he helped me.

  "Do they know," I asked, taking his unknown words, "that it's comic?"

  "The glamour," he said, "conceals it from them. To the best among themit is sacred even."

  "And the Comely Ones?"

  "It is their chief mission," he replied. "Always remember that. It'ssacred." He fixed his kind eyes gravely on my face.

  "Ah, worship, you mean," I said. "I understand." Again we stared forsome minutes. "Yet all are not comely, are they?" I asked presently.

  The fire again shone faintly in his eyes as he watched me a momentwithout answering. It caught me away. I am not sure I heard his words,but I think they ran like this:

  "That's just the point where civilization--so far--has always stopped."

  I remember he ceased tinkling then; our talk ceased too. I wasexhausted. He told me to remember what he had said, and to lie down andrest. He rang the bell, and a man, one of the four who had held me,came in.

  "Ask Nurse Robbins to come here a moment, please," he said. And amoment later the Comely One entered softly and stood beside my bed. Shedid not look at me. Dr. Fillery began again his little tinkling. "...wishes to apologize to you most sincerely, nurse, for his mistake. Hemeant no harm, believe me. There is no danger in him, nor will he everrepeat it. His ignorance of our ways, I must ask you to believe----"

  "Oh, it's nothing, sir," she interrupted. "I've quite forgotten italready. And usually he's as good as gold and perfectly quiet." Sheblushed, glancing shyly at me with clear invitation.

  "It will not recur," repeated the Doctor positively. "He has promisedme. He is very, very sorry and ashamed."

  The nurse looked more boldly a moment. I saw her silver teeth. I sawthe hint of soft fire in her poor pitiful eyes, but far, far away and,as she thought, safely hidden.

  "Pitiful one, I will not touch you," I said instantly. "I know that youare sacred."

  I noticed at once that her sweet natural perfume increased about heras I said the words, but her eyes were lowered, though she smiled alittle, and her little cheeks grew coloured. I saw her small teeth ofsilvery marble again. Our work was visible. I liked it.

  "You have promised me," said Dr. Fillery, rising to go out.

  "I promise," I said, while the Comely One was arranging my pillows andsheets with quick, clever hands, sometimes touching my cheek on purposeas she did so. "I will not worship, unless it is commanded of me first.The increased sweetness of her smell will tell me."

  But indeed already I had forgotten her, and I no longer realized whoit was that tripped about my bed, doing numerous little things to makeme comfortable. My friend, the understanding one, companion of my bigfriend, Mason, who was dead, also had left the room. His twitchingmouth, his laughter, and his shining eyes were gone. I was aware thatthe Comely One remained, doing all manner of little things about me andmy bed, unnecessary things, but my pity and my worship were not asked,so I forgot her. My thinking had wearied me, and my feeling was nottouched. I began to hum softly to myself; my giant rhythms rose; I wentforth towards my Powers of Wind and Fire, full of my own natural joy. Iforgot the Race with its men, its women, its rules and games, its tinytricks, its civilization. I was free for a little with my own.

  One detail interfered a little with the rhythms, but only for a secondand very faintly even then. The Comely One's face grew dark.

  "He's gone off asleep--actua
lly," I heard her mutter, as she left theroom with a fling of her little skirts, shutting the door behind herwith a bang.

  That bang was far away. I was already rising and falling in thatnatural happy state which to me meant freedom. It is hard to tellabout, but that dear Fillery knows, I am sure, exactly what I know,though he has forgotten it. He has known us somewhere, I feel. Heunderstands our service. But, like me, he has forgotten too.

  What really happened to me? Where did I go, what did I see and feelwhen my rhythms took me off?

  Thinking is nowhere in it--I can tell him that. I am conscious of theSun.

  One difficulty is that my being here confuses me. Here I am alreadycaught, confined and straitened. I am within certain limits. I can onlymove in three ways, three measurements, three dimensions. The space Iam in here allows only little rhythms; they are coarse and slow andheavy, and beat against confining walls as it were, are thrown back,cross and recross each other, so that while they themselves grow less,their confusion grows greater. The forms and outlines I can build withthem are poor and clumsy and insignificant. Spirals I cannot make. ThenI forget.

  Into these small rhythms I cannot compress myself; the squeezing hurts.Yet neither can I make them bigger to suit myself. I would break forthtowards the Sun.

  Thus I feel cramped, confused and crippled. It is almost impossibleto tell of my big rhythms, for it is an attempt to tell of one thingin terms of another. How can I fix fire and wind upon the point of apin, for instance, and examine them through a magnifying-glass? The Sunremains. What I experience, really, when I go off into my own freedomis release. My rhythms are of the Sun. They are his messengers, theyare my law, they are my life and happiness. By means of them I fulfillthe purpose of my being. I work, so Fillery calls it. I build.

  That, at any rate, is literally true. My thinking stops at thatpoint, perhaps; but "I think" I mean by "release"--that I escape backfrom being trapped by all these separate little individualities,human beings each working on his own, for his own, and against allthe others--escape from this stifling tangle into the sweep of mybig rhythms which work together and in unison. I search for lostcompanions, but do not find them--the golden skins and radiant faces,the mighty figures and the splendid shapes.

  _They_ work without effort, however. That is another difference.

  I, too, work, only I work with them, and never against them. I candraw upon them as they can draw upon me. We do draw on one another. Weknow harmony. Service is our method and system.

  My dear Fillery also wants to know who "we" are. How can I tell him?The moment I try to "think," I seem to forget. This forgetting,indeed, is one of the limits against which I bang myself, so that I amflung back upon the tangle of criss-cross, tiny rhythms which confuseand obliterate the very thing he wants to know. Yet the Sun I neverforget--father of fire and wind. My companions are lost temporarily.I am shut off from them. It seems I cannot have them and the Race atthe same time. I yearn and suffer to rejoin them. The service we allknow together is great joy. Of love, this love between two isolatedindividuals the Race counts the best thing they have--we know nothing.

  Now, here is one thing I can understand quite clearly:

  I have watched and helped the Race, as he calls it, for countless ages.Yet from outside it. Never till now have I been inside its limits withit. And a dim sense of having watched it through a veil or curtaincomes to me. I can faintly recall that I tried to urge my big rhythmsin among its members, as great waves of heat or sound might be launchedupon an ant-heap. I used to try to force and project my vast rhythmsinto their tiny ones, hoping to make these latter swell and rise andgrow--but never with success. Though a few members, here and there,felt them and struggled to obey and use their splendid swing, the restdid not seem to notice them at all.... Indeed, they objected to thestruggling efforts of the few who did feel them, for their own smallaccustomed rhythms were interfered with. The few were generally brokeninto little pieces and pushed violently out of the way.

  And this made me feel pitiful, I remember dimly; because thesesmaller rhythms, though insignificant, were exquisite. They were ofextraordinary beauty. Could they only have been increased, the Racethat knew and used them must have changed my own which, though hugeand splendid of their kind, lacked the intense, perfect loveliness ofthe smaller kind.

  The Race, had it accepted mine and mastered them, must have carriedthemselves and me towards still mightier rhythms which I alone couldnever reach.

  This, then, is clear to me, though very faint now. Fillery, who canthink for a long time, instead of like me for seconds only, willunderstand what I mean. For if I tell him what "we" did, he may be ableto think out what "we" were.

  "Your work?" he asked me too.

  I'm not sure I know what he means by "work." We were incessantlyactive, but not for ourselves. There was no effort. There was easy andsure accomplishment--in the sense that nothing could stop or hinderour fulfilling our own natures. Obstacles, indeed, helped our powerand made it greater, for everything feeds fire and opposition adds tothe pressure of wind. Our main activity was to make perfect forms. Wewere form-builders. Apart from this, our "work" was to maintain andkeep active all rhythms less than our own, yet of our kind. I speak ofmy own kind alone. We had no desire to be known outside our kind. Weworked and moved and built up swiftly, but out of sight--an endlessservice.

  "You are the Powers behind what we call Nature, then?" the dear Filleryasked me. "You operate behind growing things, even behind inanimatethings like trees and stones and flowers. Your big rhythms, as you callthem, are our Laws of Nature. Your own particular department, your ownelements evidently, were heat and air."

  I could not answer that. But, as he said it, I saw in his grey eyes theflash of fire which so few of his Race possessed; and I felt vaguelythat he was one of the struggling members who was aware of the bigrhythms and who would be put away in little pieces later by the rest.It made me pitiful. "Forget your own tiny rhythms," I said, "and comeover to us. But bring your tiny rhythms with you because they are soexquisitely lovely. We shall increase them."

  He did not answer me. His mouth twitched at the corners, and he had anattack of that irritation which, he says, is relieved and expressed bylaughter. Yet the face shone.

  The laughter, however, was a very quick, full, natural answer, allthe same. It was happy and enthusiastic. I saw that laughter made hisrhythms bigger at once. Then laughter was probably the means to use. Itwas a sort of bridge.

  "Your instantaneous comprehension of our things puzzles me," he said."You grasp our affairs in all their relations so swiftly. Yet it is allnew to you." His voice and face made me wish to stroke and help him, hewas so dear and eager. "How do you manage it?" he asked point blank."Our things are surely foreign to your nature."

  "But they are of children," I told him. "They are small and so verysimple. There are no difficulties. Your language is block lettersbecause your self-expression, as you call it, is so limited. It allcomes to me at a glance. I and my kind can remember a million tiniestdetails without effort."

  He did not laugh, but his face looked full of questions. I could nothelp him further. "A scrap, probably, of what you've taught us," Iheard him mumble, though no further questions came. "Well," he went onpresently, while I lay and watched the pale fire slip in tiny wavesabout his eyes, "remember this: since our alphabet is so easy to you,follow it, stick to it, do not go outside it. There's a good rule thatwill save trouble for others as well as for yourself."

  "I remember and I try. But it is not always easy. I get so cramped andstiff and lifeless with it."

  "This sunless, chilly England, of course, cannot feed you," he said."The sense of beauty in our Race, too, is very poor."

  Once he suddenly looked up and fixed his eyes on my face. His mannerbecame very earnest.

  "Now, listen to me," he said. "I'm going to read you something; I wantyou to tell me what you make of it. It's private; that is, I have noright to show it to others, but as no one would understand it--with t
heexception possibly of yourself--secrecy is not of importance." And hismouth twitched a little.

  He drew a sheaf of papers from an inner pocket, and I saw they werecovered with fine writing. I laughed; this writing always made melaugh--it was so laborious and slow. The writing I knew best, ofcourse, lay all over and inside the earth and skies. The privacyalso made me laugh, so strange seemed the idea to me, and soimpossible--this idea of secrecy. It was such an admission of ignorance.

  "I will understand it quickest by reading it," I said. "I take in apage at once--in your block letters."

  But he preferred to read it out himself, so that he could note theeffect upon me, he explained, of definite passages. He saw that Iguessed his purpose, and we laughed together a moment. "When you tireof listening," he said, "just tell me and I'll pause." I gave him myhand to hold. "It helps me to stay here," I explained, and he nodded ashe grasped me in his warm firm clasp.

  "It's written by one who _may_ have known you and your big rhythms,though I can't be sure," he added. "One of--er--my patients wrote it,someone who believed she was in communication with a kind of immenseNature-spirit."

  Then he began to read in his clear, windy voice:

  "'I sit and weave. I feel strange; as if I had so much consciousnessthat words cannot explain it. The failure of others makes my work morehard, but my own purposes never fail, I am associated with those whoneed me. The universal doors are open to me. I compass Creation.'"

  But already I began to hum my songs, though to please him I keptthe music low, and he, dear Fillery, did not bid me stop, but onlytightened his grasp upon my hand. I listened with pleasure andsatisfaction. Therefore I hummed.

  "'I am silent, seeking no expression, needing no communication,satisfied with the life that is in me. I do not even wish to be knownabout----'"

  "That's where your Race," I put in, "is to me as children. All they domust be shouted about so loud or they think it has not happened."

  "'I do not wish to be forced to obtrude myself,'" he went on. "'Thereare hosts like me. We do not want that which does not belong to us. Wedo not want that hindrance, that opposition which rouses an undesirableconsciousness; for without that opposition we could never have known ofdisobedience. We are formless. The formless is the real. That cannotdie. It is eternal.'"

  Again he tightened his grasp, and this time also laid his eyes a momenton my own, over the top of his paper, so that I kept my music back witha great effort. For it was hard not to express myself when my own camecalling in this fashion.

  He continued reading aloud. He selected passages now, instead of goingstraight through the pages. The words helped memory in me; flashes ofwhat I had forgotten came back in sheets of colour and waves of music;the phrases built little spirals, as it were, between two states. Ofthese two states, I now divined, he understood one perfectly--his own,and the other--mine--partially. Yet he had a little of both, I knew,in himself. With me it was similar, only the understood state was notthe same with us. To the Race, of course, what he read would have nomeaning.

  "The Comely One and the four figures," I said, "how they would turnwhite and run if they could hear you, showing their yellow teeth anddim eyes!"

  His face remained grave and eager, though I could see the laughterrunning about beneath the tight brown skin as he went on reading hislittle bits.

  "'We heard nothing of man, and were rarely even conscious of him,although he benefited by our work in all that sustained and conditionedhim. The wise are silent, the foolish speak, and the children are thusled astray, for wisdom is not knowledge, it is a realization of thescheme and of one's own part in it.'"

  He took a firmer, broader grip of my hand as he read the next bit. Ifelt the tremble of his excitement run into my wrist and arm. His voicedeepened and shook. It was like a little storm:

  "'Then, suddenly, we heard man's triumphant voice. We became consciousof him as an evolving entity. Our Work had told. We had built his formand processes so faithfully. We knew that when he reached his height wemust be submissive to his will.'"

  A gust of memory flashed by me as I heard. Those small but perfect,exquisite, lovely rhythms!

  "Who called me here? Whose voice reached after me, bringing me intothis undesirable consciousness?" I cried aloud, as the memory wenttearing by, then vanished before I could recover it. At the same timeFillery let go my hand, and the little bridge was snapped. I felt whathe called pain. It passed at once. I found his hand again, but thebridge was not rebuilt. How white his skin had grown, I noticed, as Ilooked up at his face. But the eyes shone grandly. "I shall find theway," I said. "We shall go back together to our eternal home."

  He went on reading as though I had not interrupted, but I found it lesseasy to listen now.

  I realized then that he was gone. He had left the room, though I hadnot seen him go. I had been away.

  It was some days ago that this occurred. It was to-day, a few hoursago, that I seized the Comely One and tried to comfort her, poor hungrymember of this little Race.

  But both occurrences help us--help dear Fillery and myself--tounderstand how difficult it is to answer his questions and tell himexactly what he wants to know.

  "How long, O Lord, how long!" I hear his yearning cry. "Yet otherbeings cannot help us; they can only tell us what their own part is."

  After the door had clicked I knew release for a bit--release from astate I partially understood and so found irksome, into another whereI felt at home and so found pleasurable. In the big rhythms my natureexpressed itself apparently. I rose, seeking my lost companions.They--the Devonham and his busy little figures--called it sleep. Itmay be "sleep." But I find there what I seek yet have forgotten, andthat with me were dear Fillery and another--a Comely One whom _he_brings--as though we belong together and have a common origin. But thisother Comely One--who is it?