Deluge: A Novel of Global Warming

by S. Fowler Wright

  Wearily she turned, and struck out once more toward the east as she had resolved when her mind was alert and vigorous.

  It was not long after, for the moon had not yet paled to the dawn, that she became aware that the sea around was broken and turbulent. Hope came with this realisation, and with hope the strength to make a final effort if she could see its objective. She could see no land, but there must be banks around her on which the sea was breaking. She calculated that the tide must be about at its lowest. At high tide these banks would be covered too deeply even for the waves to feel them. There was no help in that.

  Still she struggled on with some increase of hope and purpose. Once her foot touched ground, or so she thought, as she sank between wave and wave in a place of foam and buffeting, and then, as she rose again, she saw a stretch of land, low and black, on her left hand; against which the waves broke heavily, and past which she was drifting.

  In a second her exhaustion left her. There was a moment’s fear as she realised that it was not her own strokes but a strong sea current that was carrying her, and that it was a mere point of shallow land which was already passing. But her mind was alert and awake once more, as though it had been saving itself for this emergency—awake with the clarity which comes when it is long since food has been taken. She realised that as the land passed, the current would lose its force, and that she might be able to gain it the more easily on its further side.

  It was but a few minutes later that her feet grounded on a muddy bottom, and she waded out on to a level of mud and weed which the higher tide would submerge again before the sun had reached its meridian.

  That was all.

  She went on in the growing light in the hope of drier land—and the sea met her.

  There was no hope here of food or of water. She was on a mere bank that the sea had drowned, and would drown again in a few hours’ time; and yet, though the disappointment was bitter, she was not despondent. She had a feeling of a battle won; and was content to wait for what the fuller light should show her.

  Rain came with the dawn. A heavy storm that was soon over, but that washed the salt from lips and hair, and refreshed her exhausted body. It was warm rain. It came so heavily that she was able to make a cup of her hands and catch enough to drink, little by little, till her thirst had left her.

  Then the storm passed over, and the low sun shone warmly.

  Looking round as the air cleared, she saw that higher land rose abruptly from the sea a few miles to northward. Feeling that she had already won to safety, she thought of how she could rest for a time before undertaking the final swim which was still before her. The land on which she stood, which had once been a part of the high downs of Oxfordshire, had been stripped bare of its surface soil by the corroding tides, and would, no doubt, be worn lower by every sea that swept over it. It was no inviting couch, but she had scarcely lain down before she was sleeping heavily. The sun, gaining power as it rose, dried her drenched hair and warmed her naked limbs, while a great cloud of sea-birds, flying from the higher land, descended around her, to feed on that which the ocean left them.

  Cautious at first, they were soon moving fearlessly around, till one doubtfully pecked at a foot which had lain so long without motion; but she only turned in her sleep, and did not wake, though the movement startled the birds into a clamorous cloud that was some minutes before it settled.

  A returning wave swept up to her, lapping for a moment against her back and retiring for a little distance. It came again, and rippled gently round her, and almost at once it had spread over the flat land. She woke with the salt water in her mouth, struggling to her feet to see nothing but water around her, and unable for a time to remember where she was, nor how she came to be there.

  Then she was conscious of a great lassitude, and of stiff and aching limbs. She felt incapable of swimming for a hundred yards, and the land which was her only safety was at least three miles away. Her heart sank as she looked, but she had no choice but to attempt it. Should she stay where she was she would soon be washed off, as the great waves, which were now breaking vainly against the land, and sending on their gentler couriers that flooded round her feet, would reach and overwhelm her.

  She waded through the deepening waves towards the quieter side on which she had landed, and slid gently into the water.

  In after years she was to remember that morning’s effort more vividly than all the toil of the day and night which had preceded it. For now her mind was alert from sleep, while her body was tired, as it seemed, intolerably. She had not done half a mile before she had decided that she could never hope to reach the land which rose so plainly before her. It seemed that only the instinct to defer the inevitable as long as possible caused her to make each weary stroke with a feeling that she would never be able to attempt another. She thought also that she made no progress, that she was swimming too weakly to do so, even at times that the land receded further from her. She had, as she thought, been many hours in the water, though the sun’s height gave a shorter record, before the first hope came, which was less a hope than an awakening of fear—to fail at last, and with the land so near!

  Weakly but stubbornly she struggled on, supported less by the remains of her physical strength than by the determination that she would not die, which she had formed in the hours of vivid life and self-confidence. It was as though her will had become too weak to change the fixed intention, so that she was powerless to release her body from the toil to which she had bound it—and then her foot caught an obstruction in the water. She lowered herself at once, in hope of grounding, but found it still too deep. She had struck a submerged rail only, but ahead, distant only by the width of a narrow field, she saw a hedge which stood almost clear of water. Very soon she was wading along it, in a mere few inches of advancing waves, only keeping the ditch’s space away, till she came to an iron gate, still on its hinges, through which she passed, to feel beneath her feet the tar-smooth surface of the Oxford road.

  Soon she was clear of the water, struggling weakly along the uphill road. She could scarcely direct her course, and her footsteps wavered from side to side in the white dust which had blown along the deserted surface, but she withstood the longing to lie down at the roadside, with the final effort of her failing will. Food she must have, and would, of some kind, before the luxury of sinking into oblivion with the knowledge that life was won from the waters.

  Quiet close-cropped fields extended on either hand. Sheep fed in one of them, and some rooks were moving. Then she came to a wooden gate on the left hand, opening to a stony cart-track. The track fell, and turned, so that she could see no more than that a faint smoke was rising. Here she entered, the sharp stones cutting her feet till she walked on the grassy edge of the track. Soon she saw a cottage of grey stone, built under the hillside, that the storm had spared, and the smoke rose from its chimney.

  CHAPTER XI

  Whatever damage the storm might have occasioned, there was no longer any sign of its effects in the neatness of the little garden which surrounded the cottage. It was an unconscious tribute to the atmosphere of the place that, faint as she was, she turned to latch the little wooden gate, when she had passed through it.

  As she walked up the neat tiled path, she became acutely conscious of her lack of clothes, the convention of a lifetime protesting the more vigorously because of the old-world peace of the scene before her.

  Fearfully she looked through the little window before venturing to knock at a door which stood very slightly open. She saw a red-tiled room, with a kitchen-grate in which a slack fire smouldered. Before it a black cat dozed. There was no one there, and very cautiously and quietly she pushed the door wider and stepped into the room.

  She thought that her bare feet made no sound, but a weak voice from a room above called to know if anyone were there. She stood still, hesitating how to reply, and meanwhile the cat rose sleepily, yawned, and came over to her, purring as she smoothed her side against a naked ankle.

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nbsp; Silently Claire surveyed the room. At the far left corner the stairs opened. A tall clock ticked against the left-hand wall. Opposite to her was a horse-chair sofa with a dark rug lying upon it. Beside her, on the right hand, was the window, and on the further side was the hearth. There was a table in the centre of the room, and on it was a large square biscuit tin, a teapot, and the debris of an uncleared meal. At this sight all other consciousness left her mind. The pot was half full of cold tea, and this she drank from it, without delay of pouring. The tin was nearly full of oatmeal biscuits.

  The call from the room above was not repeated. The cat had slipped upstairs, and may have been supposed to have caused whatever noise had been overheard. When she had eaten some of the biscuits, she found the desire for sleep was stronger than the call of hunger. Even to her exhaustion the sofa was not inviting. It had an arm at each end, so that it was impossible to lie upon it at full length, and its horsehair covering showed a broken spring. She took the rug, and, stretching herself upon the hearth, drew it over her, and was asleep in a moment.

  As the light was beginning to lessen through the narrow window, though it was still day without, a sheep dog pushed his way through the half-open door and stood growling doubtfully for a moment. Then he walked over to sniff at the invader of his master’s kennel.

  Claire was still asleep, though the first heaviness of her exhaustion had left her. She had thrown off the rug, and lay face forward, her head pillowed on a bent arm. Dreaming, she was conscious only of a swirling depth of green water that moved beneath her, of a drift of low grey clouds overhead, and of the continual waves that fell and lifted. She would be far down in the hollow, or struggling up the smooth slope of the side, or on the crest for a moment, gazing over an expanse of heaving water in search of the horizon-line of land that never came, and always, hour by hour, there was the one outstretched arm and the other that came over—and over—and over—

  So she dreamed; and the dog, that had no human speech, though he could understand it well enough, sniffed doubtfully and knew her dreaming. Satisfied that here was no occasion for enmity, he lay down beneath the table and waited till the door was pushed wider and his master entered.

  It was an old man that came in, walking vigorously, though he leaned on a heavy stick. He saw the outstretched body on the hearth and paused in a natural bewilderment. His senses were less acute than those of the dog and his thoughts were slower. Seeing that she slept, he approached more nearly. In his own way he learnt, as the dog had learnt, that she had come through the waters. Her body sparkled with salt, and a ribbon of black seaweed that had curved round her thigh had drawn away as the fire’s heat dried it.

  He saw a woman very finely formed, with a body well-fitted to overcome the floods which had been fatal to millions. She was not slim; indeed was rather solidly made, so that she might have given an impression of heaviness had she been differently proportioned. But she was long of limb, contrasting in this respect with the majority of the women of her civilisation. He saw a woman young, but mature. A face from which sleep had cleared the traces of bodily fatigue and mental exhaustion. A square and resolute chin, beneath lips that could smile very easily. Lips very slightly parted, showing teeth that were large and white and regular. A broad, low brow, beneath a tangled mat of curling hair. Dark-brown hair, showing black in the shadow, with a doubt of red where the fire caught it.

  The shepherd gazed at the sleeping woman with puzzled eyes, while the dog stood beside him, his alert glances moving from one to the other. Then the old man turned to the stairs, and soon there was a murmur of voices in a room above. He came down heavily on the creaking treads, and, as he did so, the woman stirred half-wakened, and pulled the rug over her.

  Standing at the stair foot, he struck the tiled floor sharply with his stick. Her eyes were open now, though still troubled with sleep and with the thought of waters which overwhelmed her. She rose stiffly, drawing the rug round her. The shepherd spoke four words only: “My daughter wants ‘ee,” and pointed with his stick to the stairs. She went past him to the room above.

  CHAPTER XII

  Claire lived for several weeks in the shepherd’s cottage. She found that her adventure had only transferred her from one island to another, though this was larger than the one she had left. There were no human inhabitants except themselves. As the storm abated the scattered population had fled northward and doubtless perished. Only the old shepherd, having a bedridden daughter, had declined to leave her. Of him Claire knew little more on the last day than at the first meeting. Thoughts he must have had, but they were not articulate. Emotions he must have had, but they were not audible. Character he had, of which the main feature appeared to be a stolid though unintelligent loyalty. He had saved what he could of his master’s flocks, and he still served their needs with his usual slow-moving diligence. His master’s house was in ruins, but he did not touch its contents except to excavate some needed food from its larders, and perhaps his first impulse to that arose from the fact that his master’s pigs were still living, and that meal must be found to feed them.

  The farm was nearly half a mile away. Fowl still ran loose around it. The disposal of their eggs appeared to have been the old man’s most difficult problem. They had not been his responsibility previously. Now that everyone else had gone he must do the best he could. But if he should collect them, how could he take them to a market that no longer existed?

  Except as it involved a practical difficulty of this kind, he appeared to be hardly aware of the changes which had taken place around him. Claire judged the dog to be far the more sensitive to the world’s tragedy which had spared them.

  No less, Claire saw that in his own manner he had the slow efficiency that came from an ancestry which might have engaged in the same labours for millenniums. Food and warmth, clothes and shelter, these were the four needs of man, and his mind went no further. Of the drowned wealth which the sea cast them, as it must be casting it wherever dry land still stood above the waters, he took no heed unless it were of some direct and obvious utility. For the rest, if it were trapped in the ruins of fence or hedge, there it might remain till the sea reclaimed it.

  Yet Claire realised that his hold on life was firmer, he was more surely rooted, he was a hundred-fold more able to supply the needs of his own existence, than, say, Norwood had been, or than would have been many thousands of others who would have despised his life and derided his stupidity.

  She had no doubt that when the winter came provision would have been made for the needs of life till spring returned. Here were safety and peace. But it was not these she was seeking.

  The old man’s daughter had been bedridden for several years with a spinal injury which at one time had been thought permanent, but an operation had been recently performed which had offered hope of recovery. The doctors had told her that after a certain period she should be able to use her legs, and that there was no reason why strength and health should not be regained. But though the time had passed, being faced with a catastrophe which had wiped out the world for which she cared and all the pleasures for which she had longed, she had made no effort.

  She was a thin, peevish girl of about twenty years. Her hair and eyebrows were of a straw colour so light as to be almost white. Her mind was shallow and unformed. She was evidently glad of Claire’s coming. She commenced with feelings of envy and admiration, and an eager curiosity, developing, as Claire’s large and more generous nature gained upon her, into a worship which was as genuine and deep as any feeling of which she was capable.

  Under the influence of the stronger will she commenced to make efforts to regain the use of her feet, and in a few days was able to cross the tiny room, which she now shared with Claire, without assistance.

  The room was a horror to Claire. It was just half the size of the living-room below. It had one tiny window which had rarely been opened till she came, and was only opened now with much argument and querulous protest unless the day’s heat should become unbea
rable.

  Claire discovered that the window in the old man’s room had been securely nailed up, as the remedy for a broken catch.

  She had frightened the girl by suggesting that her father could not live forever, and that if she did not learn to walk she might be left helpless. To such a nature the idea of loneliness was as terrible as incapacity. She implored Claire not to leave them.

  But Claire would promise no more than that she would return at some future time should she be able to do so.

  For her resolution was fixed, nor did she disguise from herself the intention which underlay it.

  Land lay to the north. Land within easy sight, though it seemed no more than islets such as those she had known already, or flats which the higher tides swept over, where no human life could be.

  But what might be beyond them?

  She could not tell; but she would find a mate to her own liking if the world held him.

  For some weeks, none the less, she stayed in this quiet haven, waiting for such weather as would assist her purpose. At first it was warm and fine at intervals, but with high north-west winds. There were days of heavy rain. The sea was tempestuous.

  She waited for a quiet sea and for a southerly wind, or the calm which sometimes comes when midsummer is receding.

  Meanwhile she almost lived in the water, swimming far out every day, unless the sea were too rough even for her temerity. Once she was only able to regain the land after many hours of exhausting struggle; a needed warning, when she had begun to feel that the ocean had no power to drown her.