Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  Oh, that delightful Tinker, with the fragrance of wood-smoke about him and the suggestion of wild roses — what in the world was he saying to her? Something about a knife that he was sharpening, a knife, a knife. Only the bewilderment of all these sudden changes confused her so that she did not catch his words quite clearly. In any case, he was too friendly and understanding to take offence. Such a companion too. She felt she could live with him for ever. He would never nag or worry or ask her to repeat, would never tell her she was not listening to what he said.

  “I’m not listening, anyhow,” she realized, “only he’s far too good-natured to mind. He’s so frightfully kind and sweet and gentle. And his laugh is — oh, it’s just like honey.”

  She turned abruptly to him. “Tinker,” she said, “I think you’re a perfect dear,” and she kissed him on the cheek, while he went on talking exactly as before, while, as before, she hardly took in what he was saying. For she was thinking of her ribbon, her untidy hair, her general appearance, and wondering if everybody noticed the stupid blush that simply would not leave her cheeks. The blush seemed permanent, born of the inner excitement she was feeling. All this love and companionship and fun was so glorious and wonderful, too marvellous almost to last. There was the Gentleman waiting to take her out dining and dancing at palaces where only the most select could go, the Sailor waiting on the turn of the tide to go with her on a ravishing long voyage, the Tailor to make all the dresses she could possibly wear, the Ploughboy, Soldier, Tinker, all of them ready to indulge her lightest whim in their own particular way — oh, it was all too glorious and wonderful to be true, while yet it was true. Life! Life! Life! she thought....

  “Yes, of course, I’ll fry bacon with you under a hedge,” she heard herself answering at last, “and I’m not an atom afraid of toads and moles and things. Oh, Tinker, I’d just love to!” And she clapped her hands in glee.

  But even while she did so, talking over the joys of the open road with the Tinker, it was the eyes and face of the Thief that held her mind. Why was he so insistent, so important? Why did the eyes and face persist? He was nothing but a thief, even if a clever, perhaps a perfect, thief. He was horrible and dreadful, he had stolen her ribbon; she disliked, despised, detested him. And yet he was always there. He had even taken her Gent’s gold watch.

  “Bother that blood of mine,” she exclaimed beneath her breath. “I keep on blushing like — a schoolgirl!”

  She looked towards the Tinker again, thinking how gentle, kind and decent he was, how safe she was with him. He would never dream of taking her ribbon, for instance; no, nor any liberty either. Her heart warmed as she watched his weatherbeaten face with its deep crinkly lines. How worn, even threadbare, his clothes were, she thought. Often they must be soaked with cold rain, and such thin stuff could never keep the wind out. It was rather pitiful. She was aware of a deep feeling that he needed looking after, mothering. The instinct to do something for him stirred in her. She wanted to sew his buttons on.

  “Tinker,” she asked abruptly, “have you got warm underclothes, I wonder, or are they full of holes? If you’ve got any socks that want mending, you know, I”

  He looked at her strangely. “Oh, I’m orl right, thank you—” he began, when something interrupted, something behind her chair.

  Whether it was a sound or a voice she could not say, but she turned quickly — to see the Soldier standing close. He stood like a figure of iron, straight and stiff. He seemed a solid mass of bright, gold braid, as if he were a General, a Field-Marshal, or some tremendous officer who commanded all the forces in the world. He was so wonderful that her breath caught, and all she could do was to smile sweetly and adoringly up into his graven face.

  “Hullo!” she said softly. “Are you going to have your tea with me?” She felt her skin was flaming.

  He saluted smartly, staring straight in front of him with no expression on his face.

  And even in that brief second while she gazed at him, waiting for his answer, the thought poured over her again that she was, indeed, having a marvellous time, that it was all intensely enjoyable, and that, if a bit puzzling and incoherent somewhere, it was exceedingly worth while. Was there ever such a tea-party before? It rushed along helter-skelter, yet at the same time stood still, getting no further. It whirled in a circle, coming round and round again. It seemed an eternal sort of affair that need never end. All the Fruit Stoners jabbered away, full of their own grievances, proposals, schemes, plans for adventure with her. These seemed alternately meaningless and full of purpose. It was a rushing and tumultuous business rather, and the one thing that held steady was her inner certainty, her absolute conviction indeed, that she herself was somehow actually in control. She held the reins, the guiding strings, if and when she cared to use them. It was all the happy and exciting emotions she felt that persuaded her there was no hurry. She loved these emotions, she meant to enjoy them.... Immense intervals swept past, long periods flowed by; she was positive that she was older, older than she had been, while yet — oh, it was all too delightful and enjoyable to stop and think about. One and all, the Fruit Stoners were frightfully seductive—” and soon I may be too old to play,” she heard herself thinking, and wondered why on earth the idea crashed into her mind.

  For this all occurred to her in the brief second as she turned her face up to the magnificent Soldier, asking herself at the same time where, oh where, had she known him first.

  He was speaking now, answering her remark. It was a stern, cold, military voice she heard.

  “Beg pardon, Miss,” he said gruffly yet at the same time respectfully, “but I’ve been sent to hen-quire wot’cher got on?”

  He saluted again and looked straight before him, while the blood left her cheeks at this astonishing question.

  “What I’ve got on!” she repeated indignantly, surprise putting further words out of her head for the moment.

  “Wot’cher got on to-day, Miss?” said the Soldier again, a curious clank in his voice as though he were some huge, wonderful kind of automatic toy. “And they want to know very pertickler — asking your pardon, Miss.”

  His meaning dawned upon her.

  “Oh, you mean what I’m going to do!” she exclaimed, laughter now rising in her.

  “That’s it, Miss. Wot’cher got on to-day.” And he stood more erect, more square, more stiff, more military-like than ever, waiting for her answer without any expression on his wooden face. He looked, at the same time, terribly handsome, she thought, the sort of man who would save one’s life without turning a hair, then walk carelessly away without even giving his name. His chest stood out like a drum, and she could see his muscles bulging against his tunic. Probably he could toss her over his shoulder as if she were a rabbit. Such strength! Such modesty! So grand and silent too! And what a fighter! Oh, he was a beautiful man.

  “You know I think you’re a hero, Soldier,” she whispered, “in fact I know you are!” — the blood creeping up her neck again. “I wish — I wish” — she whispered so low that she could hardly hear it herself—” I wish I was in danger — now — so that you—”

  A low, steady voice froze the marrow in her bones. ‘You are in danger.”

  It came across her other shoulder, and she turned as though her head had been jerked round by wires to see the old bearded face of the Apothecary gazing calmly at her. The blood retreated from her own, the whirling excitement died, the din and confusion about her withdrew. There was a sudden calm, a queer sudden silence, a sudden coldness, too, that caught her heart. She stared hard into those grand, thoughtful, rheumy eyes.

  “In danger?” she whispered. “Me?”

  The old head bent slightly in a little nod, but the eyes were not lowered. For a flashing second the queer notion came to her that he alone of all the eight was real, the other Fruit Stoners shadowy as mechanical phantasms in a dream, or at least, that he was more real than they were. Gone before she could seize it, swept away, yet leaving in its train a faint uneasiness i
n her nerves. There is something more real than all this, ran a deep whisper through her, somewhere, yes, there is. Then this, too, vanished.

  “In danger, my ‘Pothecary?” she heard herself whispering, as the wise old head rose again from its gentle nod.

  “Your five minutes,” replied the cool, steady voice, lower than before, “cannot last for ever.”

  The words fell like drops of ice into the sudden inner silence that enveloped her, heard evidently by no one but herself, while behind them, also from the heart of that inner silence, rose the faint voice that was like the beating of her own heart: Tick tock! Tick tock! Tick tock!

  “Answer his question,” murmured the Apothecary’s ghostly whisper. “It comes from all of us. Answer — before it is too late — and then act.”

  “To know wot’cher got on now, if you please?” clanked the military voice behind her chair, as though he was asking it for the first time and not a second had passed meanwhile.

  CHAPTER X

  “To know wot’cher got on to-day,” clashed through her mind. “To know what you’ve got on, what you want to do?”

  “Answer his question. It comes from all of us. Answer — and then act. Before it is too late...!” The spoken words, the inner whisper too, banged through her whole being like an angry bell. It was as if the Soldier’s question sprang out of herself, as if it was she who had made him ask it, as if — almost — she herself had uttered the actual words.

  She rose automatically to her feet. Here was something she must deal with. She must speak. Possibly, she must act.

  In the instant of rising, of straightening her knees and lifting up her body, a flood of thoughts and realizations poured over her in a great tidal wave. Such is the speed of thought, of emotional realization, that this torrential flood swept over her instantaneously. The tumultuous turmoil of what she felt and thought, if it seemed an eternity, lasted actually but a single Tick of that horrible Tick tock! that beat her heart, as it were, to pieces.

  “Before it is too late.”

  “Tick tock! Tick tock!...”

  One thing stood out with appalling, horrifying clarity — she was here with a purpose and she had forgotten what that purpose was. She had come to find something, a pearl of great price, and what that “ something” was, that Pearl of Great Price, she had not the least idea — because it had left her memory.

  She had grown older. Her time was limited. She had Five Minutes by the clock.

  Before it is too late. Tick tock!

  Too late for what?

  “Oh, God!” she gasped inside, as her frozen knees grew straight.

  “Five Minutes!” she gasped again, as the icy breath drew rushing through her lungs!

  It all rushed back upon her — that there was something she had come to find, and that her time was short. Horribly short it was, and it was shortening while the inner Tick tock! in her heart beat remorselessly away.

  The new feelings in her lasted hours, it seemed. Actually, they passed through her in a second. Yes, new. So many things she had thought, had said to herself before in empty words, now suddenly held meaning. For the first time she understood them. Never again could she kiss a Fruit Stoner — quite as before, for instance. No longer did she want to sew their buttons on or mend their socks; that maternal impulse was replaced by something different. The kiss of innocence, the kiss of passion, were separate and different things. She had altered in herself. She had changed. She had grown older — older, yes. That was clear as day. Life was passing, whether she realized it or not. She had felt it coming — the loss of her ribbon, the anxiety about her appearance, her vexation that no mirror was to be found.

  “Oh, heavens,” she thought, while her stiff and frozen knees grew straighter, trying to support her body, “I am older — I have grown older...! My time is shorter...!”

  Too late! The Apothecary’s words blazed dreadfully across her mind, while the sense of panic hurry scattered all her faculties. Too late to play... too late to search... too late to find... ah! Yet not too late to remember perhaps...!

  Heavens! Why had she dawdled away her precious minutes? Why had she let herself be amused and seduced by all this eating, this fun with the Sailor, the Gentleman, the Tinker and Tailor and Soldier and Ploughboy, this excitement about food, about making love — all humbug love at best — when there was something of real importance that she had forgotten? Delirious and delicious though it was, it was not real, this fun, this pleasure, it was not genuine. The real, the genuine thing was the Pearl of Great Price she was here to find. That was the only object worth a moment’s thought....

  Only what was it?

  The delightful Fruit Stoners seemed in a conspiracy against her. Did they not deliberately combine to bewilder and entice her with their golden fripperies and entanglements? Were their promises of banquets, voyages, picnics, battles, dresses and the rest, all so much lovely gossamer? Did they wish, intend, to keep her here, a prisoner of pleasure and enjoyment?

  While her left knee straightened, these upsetting thoughts rushed over her in a tumultuous tidal wave.

  That she had grown older was a definite, outstanding fact. It made her gasp, it made her ache, it brought a sense of tears into her throat. The pity of it! The remorselessness! The drive and drain of it! The futility of resistance, the sense of hopelessness it gave her! Older... and no way of preventing it...!

  Over her then swept a queer realization suddenly of the many-starred phantasmagoria of the life she had entered. If attractive and enticing, it was also meaningless and incoherent. It numbed, it stupefied her. A doubt even as to its reality disturbed her. How real were these exciting Fruit Stoners and their purposes? The confusing roar and rush of their existence were in her blood already; she shared the joy and adventure of their lives. But did it mean anything, this confusing, fatuous, unintelligible jumble that was her life?...

  Her left knee had straightened, the right now followed it; on both legs she stood firm and upright. Hardly two seconds had passed since she began to rise. She was now up, she was about to speak. There was something of great importance she had to say. “But, glory be,” said Maria to herself, “what is it?”

  Her mind had gone blank, as though a sponge had swept it clean.

  She faced the table, the ring of upturned faces, all watching, staring, waiting. There was an intense silence. And it was at this moment that something happened, something that galvanized her into self-control again, bringing back a measure of realization, even of memory too. It seemed a nightmare happening. It emerged, surely, from some nightmare world, this tall, swift, passing figure.

  From the shadows at the far end of the great room it issued; it rushed along, its face looking straight ahead, turning neither right nor left; it moved with flowing stride, and silently, yet not quite silently, for the ominous Tick tock! accompanying it grew louder as it advanced. The faint beating that seemed always in her heart became audible now in the very air about the table.

  She saw the sharp, keen face, the sloping shoulders, the black coat with the long tails that flapped like the feathers of an angry, watchful bird, the striped trousers, one leg shorter than the other — the nightmare figure of the Man who Wound the Clocks, the Author of her terribly brief Five Minutes. And, reaching the spot directly opposite to her, though without stopping his swift passage, he turned his head for an instant, gazing straight into her face. He looked hard at her. It was a tiger’s look. There was a tawny touch. No sound left the tight, thin lips, but there was another sound that issued, apparently, from his whole body, and it was a slow, hoarse, grinding sound.

  His head turned away again almost instantly, looking straight in front as before; there was a flash of striped trousers, of flying coat-tails, of something streaked black and yellow, the grinding sound hung in the air. Horrors! The strike was coming!

  She stood, in that second, as if arrested, petrified. Yet there was no strike. It was the clear sound of her own ringing voice that drowned that ominous grinding
. But the shock had galvanized her memory, and the knowledge of what she had to do crashed upon her like a hurtling projectile.

  “I know what I’ve got on,” she cried out in a panic. “I know now. I’ve come here to look for something. There’s something I must find. And you all promised you would help me search. I must begin at once! Before he strikes!”

  She looked frantically about the room; she pointed with her outstretched hand.

  The figure glared fixedly at her. His Up was curled as in a frozen grin. She saw his teeth. It was a tiger’s grin.

  “That’s the man who gave me my five minutes,” she cried breathlessly. No answer came, no sign of interest even. “And I’m behind-hand already! Perhaps too late already! Oh! Oh! He’s going to strike!” she called out with desperate and passionate impatience.

  The ring of faces that stared so fixedly at her turned somewhat listlessly in the direction where she pointed, then turned idly back again. There was no figure visible; the Man who Wound the Clocks had vanished, and the awful grinding sound, the audible Tick tock! too, vanished with him. Only the faint beating in her heart went on as before, though evidently none could hear it but herself. A collective smile, she saw, spread over the faces that now gazed up again into her own.