Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  It was already thick about them, and the trees stood very still. The branches drooped, motionless in the warm evening air. The twigs pointed. Each leaf had an eye, but a hidden, lidless eye. The saplings saw them, but the heavier trunks observed them. It was known in what direction they were going, the direction, however, being chosen and insisted on by the Wood. Their very steps were counted. The whole business of the trees was suspended while they passed. They were being watched. And the stillness was so deep that it forced them, too, to make as little noise as possible. They moved with the utmost caution, pretending that a snapping twig might betray their presence, yet knowing quite well that each detail of their blundering advance was marked down with the accuracy of an instantaneous photograph. Tim, usually in advance, looked round from time to time, with a finger on his lips; and though he himself made far more noise than his companion, he stared with reproach when the latter snapped a stick or let a leafy branch swish through the air too loudly.

  “Oh, hush!” he whispered. “Please do hush!” and the same moment caught his own foot in a root, placed cunningly across the path, and sprawled forward with the noise of an explosion. But he made no reference to the matter. His own noises did no harm apparently. He was perfectly honest about it, not merely putting the blame elsewhere to draw attention from himself. His uncle’s size and visibility were co-related in his mind. Being convinced that he moved as stealthily and soundlessly as a Redskin, it followed obviously that his companion didn’t.

  The dusk had noticeably deepened when at length they reached a little clearing and stood upright, perspiring freely, and both a little flustered. The silence was really extraordinary. It seemed they had entered a private place, a secret chamber where they had no right, and were intruders. The clearing formed a circle, and from the open sky overhead a grey, mysterious light fell softly on the leafy walls. They paused and peered about them.

  “Hark! What’s that?” asked Tim in a whisper.

  “Nothing,” replied the other.

  “But I heard it,” the boy insisted; “something rushing.”

  “I’m rather out of breath, perhaps.”

  The boy looked at him reproachfully. His expression suggested “Why are you so noisy and enormous? It’s hopeless, really!” But aloud he merely said, “It’s got awfully dark all of a sudden.”

  “It’s the wood does that,” replied Uncle Felix. “Outside it’s only twilight. I think we’d better be getting on.”

  “We’re getting there,” observed the boy.

  “But we shan’t be able to see the sign if this darkness gets worse,” said the other apprehensively.

  The answer gave him quite a turn. “It’s been — ages and ages ago!”

  The idea of rescue meanwhile had merged insensibly into escape, but neither remarked upon the change. It was only that the original emotion had spread a bit. Tim and Uncle Felix stood close together in this solemn clearing, waiting, peering about them, listening intently. But Tim had seen the sign; he knew what he was doing all the time; he was in more intimate relations with the Being of the Wood than his great floundering Uncle possibly could be.

  “Which way, do you think?” asked the latter anxiously.

  There seemed no possible exit from the clearing, no break anywhere in the leafy walls; even the entrance was covered up and hidden. The Wood blocked further advance deliberately.

  “We’re lost,” said Tim bluntly, turning round and round. His eyes opened to their widest. “You’ve simply taken a wrong turning somewhere.”

  And before Uncle Felix could expostulate or say a word in self-defence, the inevitable reward of his mistake was upon him.

  “You’ve got the handkerchief!”

  Already the boy was looking about him for a suitable tree.

  “But you saw the sign, Tim,” he began excuses; “and it’s your wood;

  I’ve never been here before—”

  “That one looks the easiest,” suggested Tim, pointing to a beech. It had one low branch, but the trunk was smooth and slippery as ice. He pushed aside the foliage with his hands to make an opening towards it. “I’ll help you up.” Tim spoke as though there was no time to lose.

  But help came just then unexpectedly from another quarter — there was a sudden battering sound. Something went past them through the branches with a crashing noise. It was terrific, the way it smashed and clattered overhead, making a clapping rattle that died away into the distance with strange swiftness. They jumped; their hearts stood still a moment. It was so horribly close. But the stillness that followed the uproar was far worse than the noise. It felt as though the Wood had stretched a hand and aimed a crafty blow at them from behind the shield of foliage. A quiver of visible silence ran across the leafy walls. They stood stock still, staring blankly into each other’s eyes.

  “A wood-pigeon!” whispered Uncle Felix, recovering himself first.

  “We’ve been seen!”

  A faint smile passed over Tim’s startled face. There was no other expression in it. The tension was distressingly acute. One sentence, however, came to the lips of both adventurers. They uttered it under their breath together:

  “It’s — disappeared!”

  Instinctively they held hands then. Tim stood, rooted to the ground.

  “The centre!” They whispered it almost inaudibly. The horror of the spot where people vanished was upon them both. The power of the Wood had worn them down.

  “Yes, but don’t say it,” cried Uncle Felix; “above all, don’t say it aloud.” And he clapped one hand upon his own mouth, and the other upon the boy’s, as Tim came cuddling closer to his comforting expanse of side. “That only wakes it up, and—”

  He did not finish the sentence. Instead, his mind began to think tremendously. They were both badly frightened. What was the best thing to be done? At first he thought: “Keep perfectly still, and make no slightest movement; a quiet person is not noticed.” But, the next instant, came the truer wisdom: “If anything unusual occurs, go on doing exactly what you were doing before. Hold the atmosphere, as it were.” And on this latter inspiration he decided to act at once —

  Only to discover that Tim had realised it before him. The boy was pulling at him. “Do come on, Uncle!” he was saying. “We shall go mad with fright if we keep on standing here — we shall be raving lunatics!”

  They set off wildly then, plunging helter-skelter into the silent, heartless wood. The trees miraculously opened up a way for them as they dived and stooped and wriggled forward. In which direction they were going neither of them had the least idea, but as neither one nor the other disappeared, it was clear they had not reached the actual centre. They gasped and spluttered, their breath grew shorter, the darkness increased. They came to all sorts of curious places that deceived them; ways opened invitingly, then closed down again and blocked advance; there were clearings that were obviously false, open places that were plainly sham; and a dozen times they came to spots that seemed familiar, but which really they had never seen before. Sense of direction left them, for they continually changed the angle, compelled by the undergrowth to do so. Twigs leaped at them and stung their faces, Tim’s cheeks were splashed with mud, Uncle Felix’s clean white flannels showed irregular lines of dirty water to his knees. It was altogether a tremendous affair in which rescue and escape were madly mingled with furious attack and terrified retreat. Everything was moving, and in all directions at once. They rushed headlong through the angry Wood. But the Wood itself rushed ever past them. It was roused.

  The confusion and bewilderment had got a little more than they could manage, indeed, when — quite marvellously and unexpectedly — the darkness lifted. They saw trees separately instead of in a whirling mass. The trunks stood more apart from one another. There were patches of faint light. More — there was a line of light. It shone, grey and welcome, some dozen yards in front of them.

  “Come on!” cried Tim. “Follow me!”

  And two minutes later they found themselves outs
ide, torn, worn, and breathless, upon the edge — standing exactly at the place where they had entered three-quarters of an hour before. They had made an enormous circle. Panting and half collapsed, they stood side by side in an exhausted heap.

  “We’re out,” said Tim, with immense relief. Profoundly satisfied with himself, he looked round at his bedraggled Uncle. It was plain that he had rescued some one from “an awful-anorrible death.”

  “At last!” replied the other gratefully, aware that he was the rescued one. “But only just in time!”

  And they moved away in the deepening dusk towards the house, whose welcome lights shone across the intervening hayfield.

  CHAPTER XIII. TIME HESITATES

  Meanwhile the coveted fortnight drew towards a close. It had begun on a Friday, and that left two full, clear weeks ahead. It had seemed an inexhaustible period — when it started. There was the feeling that it would draw out slowly, like an ordinary lesson-week; instead of which it shot downhill to Saturday with hardly a single stop. On looking back, the children almost felt unfairness; somebody had pushed it; they had been cheated.

  And, of course, they had been cheated. Time had played his usual trick upon them. The beginning was so prodigal of reckless promises that they had really believed a week would last for ever. Childhood expects, quite rightly, to have its cake and eat it, for there is no true reason why anything should ever end at all. The devices are various: a titbit is set aside to enjoy later, thus deceiving Time and checking its ridiculous hurry. But in the long run Time invariably wins. After Thursday the week had shot into Saturday without a single pause. It whistled past. And the titbit, Saturday, had come.

  Yet without the usual titbit flavour; for Saturday, as a rule, wore splashes of gold and yellow upon its latter end, being a half-holiday associated with open air and sunshine, but now, Monday already in sight, with lessons and early bed and other prohibitions by the dozen, hearts sank a little, a shadow crept upon the sun. They had a grievance; some one had cheated them of a final joy. The collapse was unexpected, therefore wrong. And the arch-deceiver who had humbugged them, they knew quite well, was Time. He was in their thoughts. He mocked them all day long. Clocks grinned; Saturday, June 3, flaunted itself insolently in their faces.

  “The day after to-morrow,” remarked some one, noticing a calendar staring on the wall; and from the moment that phrase could be used it meant the day was within measurable distance.

  “Aunt Emily leaves Tunbridge Wells” was mentioned too, sounding less unpleasant than “Aunt Emily comes back.” But the climax was reached when somebody stated bluntly without fear of contradiction:

  “To-morrow’s Sunday.”

  For Sunday had no particular colour. Monday was black, and Saturday was gold, but Sunday never had been painted anything. Though a buffer-day between a vanished week and a week of labour coming, it was of uncertain character. Queer, grave people came back to lunch. There were collects and a vague uneasiness about the heathen being unfed and naked. There was a collection, too — pennies emerged from stained leather purses and dropped clicking into a polished box with a slit in the top. Greenland’s icy mountains also helped to put a chill into the sunshine. A pause came. Time went slower than usual — God rested, they remembered, on the seventh day — yet nothing happened much, and with their Sunday clothes they put on a sort of dreadful carefulness that made play seem stiff, unnatural, and out of place.

  Daddy, too, before the day was over, invariably looked worried, the servants bored, Mother drowsy, and Aunt Emily “like a clergyman’s wife.” Time sighed audibly on Sunday.

  “It’s our last day, anyhow,” they agreed, determined to live in the present and enjoy Saturday to the full.

  It was then Uncle Felix, having overheard their comments upon Time, looked round abruptly and made one of his startling remarks. “To-morrow,” he said, “is one of the most wonderful days that was ever invented. You’ll see.”

  And the way he said it provided the very thrill that was needed to chase the shadow from the sun. For there was a hint of promise in his voice that almost meant he had some way of delaying the arrival of Black Monday.

  “You’ll see,” he repeated significantly, shading his eyes with both hands and peering up at the sun.

  Tim and Judy watched him with keen faces. They noticed that he said “to-morrow” instead of “Sunday.” But before they could squeeze out a single question, there came a remarkable interruption from below. From somewhere near the ground it came. Maria, seated on a flower-pot whose flower didn’t want to grow, opened her mouth and spoke. As is already known, this did not often happen. It was her characteristic to keep it closed. Even at the dentist’s she never could be got to open her mouth, because he had once hurt her; she flatly refused to do so, and no amount of “Now open, please,” ever had the least effect on her firm decision. She was taken in vain to see the dentist.

  This last Saturday of the week, however, she opened.

  “I’ve not had my partickler adventure,” was what she said.

  At the centre of that circle where she lived in a state of unalterable bliss, the fact had struck her, and she mentioned it accordingly.

  Tim and Judy turned upon her hungrily, but before they could relieve their feelings by a single word their Uncle had turned upon her too. Lowering his eyes from the great circular sun that moved in a circle through the sky, he let them fall upon the circular Maria who reposed calmly upon the circle of the earth, which itself swung in another circle round the sun.

  “Exactly,” he said, “but it’s coming. Your father told you a day would come. It is!”

  He said no more than that, but it was enough to fill the remainder of the day with the recurrent thrill of a tremendous promise. Each hour seemed pregnant with a hint of exceptional delivery. There were signs and whispers everywhere, and everybody was aware of it. Uncle Felix looked “bursting with it,” as though he could hardly keep it in, and even the Lesser Authorities had as much as they could do to prevent it flying out of them in sudden sentences. Jackman wore a curious smile, which Judy declared was “just the face she made the day Maria was born”; Mrs. Horton left her kitchen and was seen upon the lawn actually picking daisies; and even Thompson — well, when Tim and his sister came upon him basking with a pipe against the laundry window, wearing a discarded tweed coat of their father’s, and looking “exactly like the Pope asleep,” he explained his position to Tim with the extraordinary remark that “even the Servants’ Hall ‘as dreams,” and went on puffing his pipe precisely as before. But Weeden betrayed it most. They knew by the smell— “per fumigated,” as they called it — that he was in the passages, watering the flowers or arranging new ones on the window-sills, and when Tim said, “Seen any more water-rats to pot at, Weeden?” the man just smiled and replied, “Good mornin’, Master Tim; it’s Saturday.”

  The inflection of his tone was instantly noticed. “Oh, I say, Weeden, how do you know? Do tell me. I won’t say a word, I promise.” But the Head Gardener kept his one eye — the other was of glass — upon the spout of his watering-can, and answered in a voice that issued from his boots— “Because to-morrow’s Sunday, Master Tim, unless something ‘appens to prevent it.” He then went quickly from the room, as though he feared more questions; he took the secret with him; he was nervous about betraying what he knew. But Judy agreed with Tim that “his answer proved it, because why should he have said it unless he knew!”

  Meanwhile, that fine morning in early June slipped along its sunny way; a heavy treacle-pudding luncheon was treated properly; Uncle Felix lit his great meerschaum pipe, and they all went out on the lawn beneath the lime trees. The undercurrent of excitement filled the air. Something was going to happen, something so wonderful that they could not speak about it. They did not dare to ask questions lest they should somehow stop it. It was a most delicately poised affair. The least mistake might send it racing in the opposite direction. But their imaginations were so actively at work inside that they could not
help whispering among themselves about it. The silence of their Uncle piled up the coming wonder in an enormous heap.

  “Something is coming,” affirmed Judy in an undertone for the twentieth time, “but I think it will be after tea, don’t you?”

  “Prob’ly,” assented her brother, very full of treacle pudding. He sighed.

  “Or p’r’aps it’s somebody, d’you think?”

  Tim shrugged his shoulders carefully, conscious of insecurity within.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised, would you?” Judy insisted. Of course she knew as much as he did, but she wanted to make him say something definite.

  “It’s both,” he said grandly. “Things like this always come together.”

  “Yes, but it’s quite new. It’s never happened before.”

  He looked sideways at her with the pity of superior knowledge.

  “How could it?” So great was his private information that he almost added “stupid.” But he kept back the word for later. He repeated instead: “However could it?”

  “Well, but—” she began.

  “Don’t you see, it’s what Daddy always told us,” he reminded her with an air. And instantly, with overwhelming certainty, those Wonder Sentences of their father’s, first spoken years ago, crashed in upon their minds: Some day; a day is coming; a day will come.

  Tim’s assurance hurt her vanity a little, for it was only fair that she should know something too, however little. But the force of the discovery at once obliterated all lesser personal emotions.