Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  Each, however, in some marvellous way, shared the adventures of the others, as though the Tramp merged all seven of them into one single being, unified them, at any rate, into this one harmonious, common purpose with himself. For, while everybody had a different way of looking, everybody’s way — for that particular individual — was exactly right.

  “Smell, then follow,” was the secret. “Find your own sign and stick to it,” the clue. Each sign, though by different routes, led straight towards the marvellous hiding-place. To urge one’s own sign upon another was merely to delay that other; but to point out better signs of his own particular kind was to send him on faster than before. Thus there was harmony among them all, for every seeker, knowing this, had — found himself.

  REALITY

  X

  But, while there was no hurry, no passing, and, most certainly of all, no passing away, there was a sense of enormous interval. There were epochs, there were interludes, there was — duration.

  Though everything had only just begun, it was yet complete, if not completed.

  At any point of an adventure that adventure could be taken over from the very start, the experience holding all the thrill and wonder of the first time.

  Cake could be had and eaten too. Tim, half-way down a rabbit-hole, could instantly find himself at the opening again, bursting with all the original excitement of trembling calculations. With the others it was similar.

  There was no end to anything. Yet — there was this general consciousness of gigantic interval. It turned in a circle round them — everywhere….

  They came together, then, all eight of them, into that place of singular enchantment known as the End of the World, sitting in a group about the prostrate elm that on ordinary days was Home. What they had been doing each one knew assuredly, even if no one mentioned it. Tim, who had been to India with Come-Back Stumper, had a feeling in his heart that expressed itself in one word, “everywhere,” accompanied by a sigh of happy satisfaction; Judy felt what she knew as “Neverness”; she had seen the Metropolis inside out, with Uncle Felix apparently. And these two couples now sat side by side upon the tree, gazing contentedly at the colony of wallflowers that flamed in the sunshine just above their heads. WEEDEN, cleaning his spade with a great nailed boot, turned his good eye affectionately upon the sack that lay beside him, full now to bursting. Aunt Emily breathed on her gold-rimmed glasses, rubbed them, and put them on her elastic nose, then looked about her peacefully yet expectantly, ready, it seemed, to start again at any moment — anywhere. She guarded carefully a mossy bundle in her black silk lap. A little distance from her Thompson was fastening a flower into Mrs. Horton’s dress, and close to the gate stood the Policeman, smoking a pipe and watching everybody with obvious contentment. His belt was loose; both hands stuck into it; he leaned against the wooden fence.

  On the ground, between the tree and the fence, the Tramp had made a fire. He lay crouched about it. He and the fire belonged to one another. It seemed that he was dozing.

  And this sense of lying in the heart of an enormous circular interval touched everybody with delicious peace; each had apparently found something real, and was content merely to lie and — be with it. All came gradually to sitting or reclining postures. Yet there was no sense of fatigue; any instant they would be up again and looking.

  Occasionally one or other of them spoke, but it was not the kind of speech that struggled to express difficult ideas with tedious sentences of many words. There was very little to say: mere statements of indubitable reality could be so easily and briefly made.

  “Now,” said Tim, unafraid of contradiction.

  “Then,” said Judy, equally certain of herself.

  “Now then,” declared Uncle Felix, positive at last of something.

  “Naturally,” affirmed Aunt Emily.

  “Of course,” growled Come-Back Stumper. And while WEEDEN, looking contentedly at his bursting sack, put in “Always,” the Policeman, without referring to his notebook, added from the fence, “That’s right.” The remarks of Thompson and Mrs. Horton were not audible, for they were talking to one another some little distance away beside the Rubbish Heap, but their conversation seemed equally condensed and eloquent, judging by the satisfied expression on their faces. Thompson probably said, “Well,” the cook adding, “I never!”

  The Tramp, stretched out beside his little fire of burning sticks, however, said more than any of them. He also said it shortly — as shortly as the children. There was never any question who was Leader.

  “Yes,” he mentioned in a whisper that flowed about them with a sound like singing wind.

  It summed up everything in a single word. It made them warm, as though a little flame had touched them. All the languages of the world, using all their sentences at once, could have said no more than that consummate syllable — in the way he said it: “Yes!” It was the word the whole Day uttered.

  For this was perfectly plain: Each of the group, having followed his or her particular sign to the end of the world, now knew exactly where the hider lay. The supreme discovery was within reach at last. They were merely waiting, waiting in order to enjoy the revelation all the more, and — waiting in an ecstasy of joy and wonder. Seven or eight of them were gathered together; the hiding-place was found. It was now, and then, and natural, and always, and right: it was Yes, and life had just begun….

  There happened, then, a vivid and amazing thing — all rose as one being and stood up. The Tramp alone remained lying beside his little fire. But the others stood — and listened.

  The precise nature of what had happened none of them, perhaps, could explain. It was too marvellous; it was possibly the thing that nobody understands, and possibly the thing they didn’t know they knew; yet they both knew and understood it. To each, apparently, the hiding-place was simultaneously revealed. Their Signs summoned them. The hider called!

  Yet all they heard was the singing of a little bird. Invisible somewhere above them in the sea of blazing sunshine, it poured its heart out rapturously with a joy and a passion of life that seemed utterly careless as to whether it was heard or not. It merely sang because it was — alive.

  To Judy, at any rate, this seemed what they heard. To the others it came, apparently — otherwise. Their interpretations, at any rate, were various.

  Thompson and Mrs. Horton were the first to act. The latter looked about her, sniffing the air. “It’s burning,” she said. “Mary don’t know enough. That’s my job, anyhow!” and moved off in the direction of the house with an energy that had nothing of displeasure nor of temper in it. It was apparently crackling that she heard. Thompson went after her, a willing alacrity in his movements that yet showed no sign of undignified hurry. “I’ll be at the door in no time,” he was heard to say, “before it’s stopped ringing, I should not wonder!” There was a solemn joy in him, he spoke as though he heard a bell. WEEDEN turned very quietly and watched their disappearing figures. He shouldered his heavy sack of truffles and his spade. No one asked him anything aloud, but, in answer to several questioning faces, he mumbled cautiously, though in a satisfied and pleasant voice, “My garden wants me — maybe; I’ll have a look” — obviously going off to water the apricots and rose trees. He heard the dry leaves rustling possibly.

  “Keep to the gravel paths,” began Aunt Emily, adjusting her gold glasses; “they’re dry” — then changed her sentence, smiling to herself: “They’re so beautifully made, I mean.” And gathering up her bundle of living ferns, she walked briskly over the broken ground, then straight across the lawn, waving her trowel at them as she vanished in the shade below the lime trees. The shade, however, seemed deeper than before. It concealed her quickly.

  “I’ll be moving on now,” came the deep voice of the Policeman. He opened the gate in the fence and consulted a notebook as he did so. He passed slowly out of sight, closing the gate behind him carefully. His heavy tramp became audible on the road outside, the road leading to the Metropolis. “There’s some
one asking the way—” his voice was audible a moment, before it died into the distance. The road, the gateway, the fence were not so clear as hitherto — a trifle dim.

  These various movements took place so quickly, it seemed they all took place at once; Judy still heard the bird, however. She heard nothing else. It was singing everywhere, the sky full of its tender and delicious song. But the notes were a little — just a little — further away she thought, nor could she see it anywhere.

  And it was then that Come-Back Stumper, limping a trifle as usual, approached them. He looked troubled rather, and though his manner was full of confidence still, his mind had mild confusion in it somewhere. He joined Uncle Felix and the children, standing in front of them.

  “Listen!” he said in low, gruff voice. He held out an open palm, three snail-shells in it, signifying that they should take one each. “Listen!” he repeated, and put the smallest shell against his own ear. “D’you hear that curious sound?” His head was cocked sideways, one ear pressed tight against the shell, the other open to the sky. “The Ganges…” he mumbled to himself after an interval, “but the stones are moving — moving in the river bed…. That long, withdrawing roar!” He was just about to add “down the naked shingles of the world,” when Uncle Felix interrupted him.

  “Grating,” he said, listening intently to his shell; “a metallic, grating sound. What is it?” There was apprehension in his tone, a touch of sadness. “It’s getting louder too!”

  “Footsteps,” exclaimed Tim. “Two feet, not four. It’s not a badger or a rabbit.” He went on with sudden conviction— “and it’s coming nearer.” There was disappointment and alarm in him. “Though it might be a badger, p’r’aps,” he added hopefully.

  “But I hear singing,” cried Judy breathlessly, “nothing but singing. It’s a bird.” Her face was radiant. “It is a long way off, though,” she mentioned.

  They put their shells down then, and listened without them. They

  glanced from one another to the sky, all four heads cocked sideways.

  And they heard the sound distinctly, somewhere in the air about them.

  It had changed a little. It was louder. It was coming nearer.

  “Metallic,” repeated Uncle Felix, with an ominous inflection.

  “Machinery,” growled Stumper, a fury rising in his throat.

  “Clicking,” agreed Tim. He looked uneasy.

  “I only hear a bird,” Judy whispered. “But it comes and goes — rather.” And then the Tramp, still lying beside his little fire of burning sticks, put in a word.

  “It’s we who are going,” he said in his singing voice. “We’re moving on again.”

  They heard him well enough, but they did not understand quite what he meant, and his voice died into the distance oddly, far away already, almost on the other side of the fence. And as he spoke they noticed another change in the world about them. Three of the party noticed it — the males, Uncle Felix, Tim, and Come-Back Stumper.

  For the light was fading; it was getting darker; there was a slight sense of chill, a growing dimness in the air. They realised vaguely that the Tramp was leaving them, and that with him went the light, the heat, the brilliance out of their happy day.

  They turned with one accord towards him. He still lay there beside his little fire, but he seemed further off; both his figure and the burning sticks looked like a picture seen at the end of a corridor, an interminable corridor, edged and framed by gathering shadows that were about to cover it. They stretched their hands out; they called to him; they moved their feet; for the first time this wonderful day, there was hurry in them. But the receding figure of the Tramp withdrew still further and further, until an inaccessible distance intervened. They heard him singing faintly “There is no hurry, Life has just begun…The world is young with laughter…We can fly…” but the words came sighing towards them from the inaccessible region where he lay, thousands of years ago, millions of miles away, millions of miles….

  “You won’t forget,” were the last words they caught. “You know now.

  You’ll never forget…!”

  When a sudden cry of joy and laughter sounded close behind them, and they turned to see Judy standing on tiptoe, stretching her thin, slim body as if trying to reach the moon. The light was dim; it seemed the sun had set and moonlight lay upon the world; but her figure, bright and shining, stood in a patch of radiant brilliance by herself. She looked like a white flame of fire ascending.

  “I’ve got it!” she was crying rapturously, “I’ve got it!” Her voice was wild with happiness, almost like the singing of a bird.

  The others stared — then came up close. But, while Tim ran, Stumper and Uncle Felix moved more slowly. For something in them hesitated; their attitudes betrayed them; there was a certain confusion in the minds of the older two, a touch of doubt. The contrast between the surrounding twilight and the brilliant patch of glory in which Judy stood bewildered them. The long, slim body of the child, every line of her figure, from her toes to the crown of her flying hair, pointing upwards in a stream of shining aspiration, was irresistible, however. She looked like a lily growing, nay rushing, upwards to the sun.

  They followed the direction of her outstretched arms and hands. But it was Tim who spoke first. He did not doubt as they did:

  “Oh, Judy, where?” he cried out passionately. “Show me! Show me!”

  The child raised herself even higher, stretching her toes and arms and hands; her fingers lengthened; she panted; she made a tremendous effort.

  “There!” she said, without looking down. Her face was towards the sky, her throat stretched till the muscles showed and her hair fell backwards in a stream.

  Then, following the direction of her eyes and pointing fingers, the others saw for the first time what Judy saw — a small wild rose hung shining in the air, dangling at the end of a little bending branch. The bush grew out of the rubbish-heap, clambering up the wall. No one had noticed it before. At the end of the branch hung this single shining blossom, swinging a little in the wind. But it was out of reach — just a shade too high for her eager fingers to take hold of it. Beyond it grew the colony of wall-flowers, also in the curious light that seemed the last glory of the fading day. But it was the rose that Judy wanted. And from somewhere near it came the sweet singing of the unseen bird.

  “Too high,” whispered Uncle Felix, watching in amazement. “You can’t manage it. You’ll crick your back! oh — oh!” The sight of that blossom drew his heart out.

  “Impossible,” growled Stumper, yet wondering why he said it. “It’s out of reach.”

  “Go it!” cried Tim. “You’ll have it in a second. Half an inch more!

  There — you touched it that time!”

  For an interval no one could measure they watched her spellbound; in each of them stirred the similar instinct — that they could reach it, but that she could not. A deep, secret desire hid in all of them to pick that gleaming wild rose that swung above them in the air. And, meanwhile, the darkness deepened perceptibly, only Judy and the blossom framed still in shining light.

  Then, suddenly, the child’s voice broke forth again like a burst of music.

  “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

  There was a breathless pause. Her finger did not stretch a fraction of an inch — but the rose was nearer. For the bird that still sang invisibly had fluttered into view and perched itself deliberately upon the prickly branch. It lowered the rose towards the human hands. It hopped upon the twig. Its weight dropped the prize — almost into Judy’s fingers. She touched it.

  “I’ve found him!” gasped the child.

  She touched it — and sank with the final effort in a heap upon the ground. The bird fluttered an instant, and was gone into the darkness. The twig, released, flew back. But at the end of it, swinging out of reach, still hung the lovely blossom in mid-air — unpicked.

  There was confusion then about the four of them, for the light faded very quickly and darkness blotted ou
t the world; the rose was no longer visible, the bush, the wall, the rubbish-heap, all were shrouded. The singing-bird had gone, the Tramp beside his little fire was hidden, they could hardly see one another’s faces even. Voices rose on every side. “She missed it!” “It was too lovely to be picked!” “It’s still there, growing….I can smell it!”

  Yet above them all was heard Judy’s voice that sang, rose out of the darkness like a bird that sings at midnight: “I touched it! My airy signs came true! I know the hiding-place! I’ve — found him!”

  The voice had something in it of the Tramp’s careless, windy singing as well.

  “Look! He’s touched me…! Look…!”

  For in that instant when the rose swung out of reach again, in that instant when she touched it, and before the fading light hid everything — all saw the petal floating down to earth. It settled slowly, with a zigzag, butterfly course, fluttering close in front of their enchanted eyes. And it was this petal, perhaps, that brought the darkness, for, as it sank, it grew vast and spread until it covered the entire sky. Like a fairy silken sheet of softest coloured velvet it lay on everything, as though the heavens lowered and folded over them. They felt it press softly on their faces. A curtain, it seemed — some one had let the curtain down.

  Beneath it, then, the confusion became extraordinary. There was tumult of various kinds. Every one cried at once “I’ve found him! Now I know!” At the touch of the petal, grown so vast, upon their eyelids, each knew his “sign” had led him to the supreme discovery. This flower was born of the travail of a universe. Child of the elements, or at least blessed by them, this petal of a small wild-rose made all things clear, for upon its velvet skin still lay the morning dew, air kissed it, its root and origin was earth, and the fire of the sun blazed in its perfect colouring…. Yet in the tumult and confusion such curious behaviour followed. For Come-Back Stumper, crying that he saw a purple beetle pass across the world, proceeded to curl up as though he crawled into a spiral snail-shell and meant to go to sleep in it; Tim shouted in the darkness that he was riding a huge badger down a hole that led to the centre of the earth; and Uncle Felix begged every one to look and see what he saw, darkness or no darkness— “the splash of misty blue upon the body of a dragon-fly!”