The Night of the Triffids

by Simon Clark

  The radio operator had told me to sit tight in the post office. But as triffid stings snapped against the panes, leaving spittle-like streaks of poison upon the glass, I realized that to hide myself there in a cowardly funk meant that I would be guilty of manslaughter by default.

  The triffids had invaded our island. That much was clear. They had already killed. They would kill again. And nearby must be dozens of unsuspecting islanders. I knew that I had a duty to warn them.

  Now I moved as quickly as I could, carrying my light and my shield.

  The day was still as black as - well, as night. I could see no more than a few paces in front of me. I realized only too clearly that I wouldn't even see the triffid that might kill me, striking as it could with its ten-foot sting from the darkness beyond the little circle of light cast by the lamp.

  An additional problem: I didn't know this area at all well. I did, however, recall that up the hill from Bytewater ran a narrow lane. And that lane ran up through open fields to one of the Mother Houses. There, triffids would find easy targets. Children playing in the grounds; the mothers, some of whom were blind, pushing babies in carriages, or going about their chores.

  So I ran through that all-encompassing darkness, my breath rasping in my throat, my heart beating thunderously. All I could see were my pounding feet and a few square feet of road surface beneath them.

  Every so often, lying there on the road would be a felled bird or cat that had been taken by the stingingly accurate poison tendril of a triffid. What was more, it became rapidly clear to me that the lethal plants' behavioural patterns had altered. Instead of making a kill and then taking root by its victim in order to feed as putrefaction set in, a triffid would now kill and move on straightaway in a relentless search for new victims. Just what had brought about this new response was anyone's guess but it did mean that they were now even more dangerous.

  I ran, straining my eyes to scan ahead, looking for the distinctive eight-foot-tall swaying shape of a killer plant as it sought new prey.

  With my nerves stretched taut, I was acutely sensitive to every sound, every movement, every shape glimpsed no matter how fleetingly from the corner of my eye. More than once I ducked, simultaneously raising the cupboard door across my face, only to lower it and discover that I was protecting myself from a road sign or a common hawthorn bush.

  I didn't allow myself much pause. In my mind's eye I could see with dreadful clarity those murderous plants moving on their jerky tripedal stumps into the grounds of the Mother House, the stingers whipping through the air to lash the faces of children and grown women alike.

  I dreaded reaching the house and standing there with the lamp raised, impotently looking about me at dozens of corpses lying with their arms thrown out, their faces frozen in postmortem expressions of agony.

  Something whistled through the air. Quickly I jerked the cupboard door up in front of my face. A split second later I felt the smack of the stinger strike the other side with enough force to rock me back on my heels.

  I heard sticks drumming against stems in the cold certainty that they had found another victim.

  But I wasn't going to fall victim to them so easily. Shielding myself with the door I ran on. Another stinger lashed out but missed me as I zigzagged away up the lane.

  I was panting hard. My foot ached abominably from when I had slipped down the stairs earlier in Mr Hartlow's house. More than once I nearly dropped the lamp.

  And the lamp - that tiny, fragile lamp with its rag wick - was my sole light source. If I should accidentally break it I would be left helplessly blind in those nightlands. I risked a glance at the sky. Even though it must be mid-morning there still wasn't so much as a glimmer of sunlight.

  Struggling for breath, grimly carrying the cupboard door that seemed to grow heavier with every step I took, I reached the top of the hill.

  The wall that surrounded the old manor house seemed to roll out of nowhere, so feeble was the light of the lamp.

  I heard a scraping sound. Heart pounding, I paused, trying to process that sound in my head, striving to match it with an image from memory.

  Scrape-scrape…

  It had to be the movement of a triffid upon the gravel drive.

  I pressed my face to the cupboard door, waiting for the blow of the stinger.

  'Yes? What do you want?' came a no-nonsense female voice.

  I was so surprised at hearing human speech that I froze.

  'Hello? Oh, don't be silly. I know there's someone there.'

  Then it came again: scrape-scrape.

  I raised the lamp.

  There in the light stood one of the Blind Mothers, recognizable by the distinctive white headscarf they all wore. She was vigorously raking the gravel on the ground, flattening it where carts had formed ruts. Every so often she 'looked' in my direction with eyes that, although sightless, nonetheless revealed a keen intelligence. And while she may have been in her seventieth year she still had a robust energy; the white limestone chippings fair fizzed beneath the tines of that flashing rake.

  'Mother…' I panted, finding my voice at last and addressing her formally by her title. 'Mother, you must get back into the grounds and close the gates.'

  'I must, must I, young man?'

  'Yes. There are-'

  'And who is giving me such impudent orders?'

  'I'm sorry. My name is David Masen.'

  'Masen, uhm? Any relation to Mr Bill Masen?'

  'Yes, I'm his son.'

  'So, Mr Masen junior, why so much dash and breathlessness?'

  At that moment my lamp dimmed to a feeble glow. I'd been in such a rush to leave Mr Hartlow's cottage that I'd neglected to check now much oil - triffid oil, ironically enough - remained in its reservoir. Darkness instantly rushed in to within a yard of me, like air pouring in to fill a vacuum. All around me lurked the humped and monstrous shadows of bushes, trees and who knew what else.

  'Please, Mother.' I looked this way and that in alarm. I could see nothing now with that lamp. 'Mother. There are triffids coming this way.'

  'Triffids?' She sounded astonished and immediately stopped raking. 'This had better be no joke, young man!'

  'It isn't, Mother. Please… we need to close the gates. They will be here any moment.' I shot a look back the way I'd come. There was nothing behind me but darkness - dreadful darkness.

  'Quickly,' she said, realizing the danger. 'You take the left-hand gate. I'll take the right.'

  The light from the lamp was dying quickly as the oil became exhausted. I could barely make out the ornate iron gates that stood a good eight feet high. Nevertheless, when they were closed they sealed the gap in a brick wall of about the same height. I prayed that the wall ran round the entire property - and that there were no more open gates. Triffids, after all, were shrewd enough to follow a barrier until they found an opening. Then they would be inside: poisoning, blinding, killing.

  Somewhere in the distance I heard the high, excited voices of children.

  As the Mother snapped the padlock onto the gate I said, 'Mother, is there a way to get the children into the house right away? If they get too close to the walls they might still be within reach of the triffids' stings.'

  'I'll ring the bell for school,' she said as, with an unerring sense of direction, she hurried along the driveway. 'Come along, young man, you can help. The children are in high spirits; they say that it is still dark.'

  'It is.'

  The Mother paused. 'How dark?'

  I told her that without a lamp I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.

  She considered for a moment. 'First darkness, then triffids… it strikes one as being rather a sinister omen, doesn't it?'

  At that moment the light from my lamp finally died. Even though we should be safe - for a time, anyway - my stomach spasmed painfully. I had lost the power to see again.

  I swallowed. 'Do you have a two-way radio? We need to get in touch with the authorities. I've already warned them about the triffi
ds but we should let them know we're safe for the moment.'

  'Indeed we should, Mr Masen. Follow me - we'll go up to the house. It lies just beyond those trees across there.'

  'Ah, excuse me, Mother.'

  'Why sound so nervous, young man? What's wrong?'

  'My lamp has gone out.'

  'You mean to say it is so dark that you really can't see a thing?'

  'It is, yes.'

  'Hmm, this really is rum, isn't it? Well, Mr Masen, allow me to take your arm and I shall be your guide.'

  Then that old lady who'd been thirty years blind walked briskly along the driveway, her arm through mine, leading me through the inky dark, our feet crunching on the gravel.

  I walked with one hand held in front of me, level with my eyes. Like all people suddenly deprived of sight I was wary of walking into something hard and hurting my face.

  'Mr Masen, do you see the lights of the house yet?'

  'No. Not a thing.'

  'You should in a moment. Perhaps they are still screened by the trees.'

  Or perhaps, I told myself fearfully, the triffids have already slipped in by another entrance to exterminate everyone with their lashing stings.

  'Now, Mr Masen. I hear plenty of news stories about your father's laudable work to root out those bloody plants. However, I've not heard your name mentioned at all.'

  'That's because I don't work with my father. I haven't his head for science.'

  'What do you do, then, Mr Masen? If that doesn't sound too damn nosy?'

  'I'm a pilot.'

  'Ah, one of our brave few. But you must find those cockpits awfully cramped. I can tell you're a tall man, well above average height. Six foot two, perhaps?'

  'Six foot four.'

  'How exceptional.'

  She chatted to put me at my ease, knowing as she must have done how uncomfortable it was, to say the least, to be suddenly deprived of one's sight. But the truth of the matter was that I was anything but relaxed. I didn't like this unnatural darkness. I didn't like it one little bit. And, moreover, I knew that the triffids would be hurrying to the house as fast as their woody stumps could carry them, like a pack of starving dogs drawn by the scent of roasting meat.

  'Are you married, Mr Masen?'

  'No.'

  'Not found the right girl?'

  'Partly. But sometimes I'm away from the island for weeks at a time. It wouldn't be fair to a wife.'

  'Ah, a man of sensitivity as well as of heroic stature. We really must talk later. You're a greater asset to the island than perhaps you yourself realize. Now - how is your mother? I remember long ago reading her novel Sex is My Adventure with enormous avidity.'

  'She's very well, thank you. Although her writing is now confined to lab reports and the… Wow! I hadn't expected that.'

  'The "Wow," I take it, indicates that the floodlights have been switched on?'

  The first thing I saw in the wash of light blazing from electric lamps set on posts along the driveway was the Mother's smiling face. The next, as we rounded a dense barrier of bushes, was the grand three-storeyed mansion and children playing on a quadrangle to one side, which was illuminated by a series of more humble electric lamps.

  'Well, now you can actually see again perhaps you would help me get these children indoors.' She clapped her hands. 'Timothy, Lucy. Out of that tree at once.' How the devil she could identify individual children playing in the tree mystified me. Then she reached something like a telegraph post set in the ground beside the driveway. Attached to that was a rope. I couldn't see the top of the post as it was lost to the dark. But the moment she tugged on the rope I heard the sound of the bell ringing across the rolling lawns and away into the nightlands beyond the walls.

  The children responded to the bell obediently enough. They ran past me, calling in those high, excited voices, thrilled rather than frightened that the sun hadn't risen. As far as I could tell they were streaming into one of the wings of the house where lights shone through the windows.

  The Mother still pulled hard on the cord; the bell continued to ring out. It told the children to return to their classrooms. Yet it also sent out a clear signal to the triffids roaming the fields. For them it could have been the peal of the dinner bell. I knew it wouldn't be long before they'd cluster about the gate, pressing against it, testing its strength.

  A sighted Mother about twenty years old walked lightly along the drive toward us. 'All the children are indoors now, Mother Susan.'

  'Thank you, Mother Angela. Best that you go indoors yourself now. And please ask all the Mothers and auxiliaries to gather in the refectory, I need to speak to you all.'

  'Yes, Mother.' After an appraising up-and-down glance at me she returned quickly to the house.

  There was nothing else to do now but wait.

  Every gate into the grounds had been locked. They'd withstand the triffid assault for an hour or so at the very least, which would give the anti-triffid squads ample time to arrive. Besides, the doors of the house itself were stout enough should any of the plants break through into the grounds.

  With nothing else to occupy me I mooched around the ancient building for a while. In the library I noticed above a Jacobean fireplace a stone tablet that had been set into the wall by the builders of the house. There, deeply chiselled, were the words Sol lucet omnibus. Helpfully for me the translation had been inscribed below: The sun shines for everyone.

  Well, no… not any more, it didn't.

  The world outside was as black as Hades. And who knew how long it would stay like that?

  After the library I retraced my steps along the corridor. From one schoolroom I heard the class singing an old hymn:

  All things bright and beautiful,

  All creatures great and small,

  All things wise and wonderful,

  The Lord God made them all…

  The sound of the children's voices at that moment sent an icy prickle across my skin. They sang, feeling safe and secure in their familiar world. But beyond the walls, out there in the darkness, triffids would hear the rising and falling of the melody. In my mind's eye I saw them. Those grotesque plants, their stems swaying with all the menace of cobras moving to the sounds of a pipe. Only these vicious monstrosities would be far from charmed by the music. Given half a chance they would lash their ten-foot stings into the infants' faces.

  The mental image unsettled me. If I'd been in charge I would have been inclined to herd the children into the relative safety of the cellar.

  Mother Susan, however, had thought it best not to alarm them. So, with the exception of the darkness beyond the windows, it was business as usual - although I did suggest the precaution of posting a number of sighted Mothers as lookouts. These now patrolled the flat roof of the building. Occasionally, they would report back to a Grand Mother that slender stalks could be seen moving in that characteristic jerky motion beyond the walls.

  ***

  Later, Mother Susan unerringly tracked me down to the refectory where I was being fortified with tea and toast. Joining me at one of the long tables she said briskly, 'Mr Masen, I usually find it best to ask this straight. Are you registered with any of the Mother Houses?'

  'Registered?' I asked, deliberately playing dumb.

  'Now, now, don't be coy with me, Mr Masen, you know perfectly well what I mean. Come now, are you registered?'

  'No, I'm not.'

  'But the island's population would benefit enormously from such fine blood as yours.'

  'Well, I don't know if-'

  'You have no philosophical objections to eugenics?'

  'No, but-'

  'Well, that's settled then. After this storm in a tea cup has blown itself out, and once we've returned to our proper routine you must call on us as our guest for dinner.'

  'I'm due to fly out to-'

  'Oh, there'll be no pressure, Mr Masen,' she said with a bright smile. 'Would next Friday suit?'

  'Er, I'm not sure…'

  'Excellent! Next Fri
day it is, then. And just you remember: the oats you sow needn't necessarily all be wild ones. Right, I'll leave you to your toast. And do try the gooseberry jam - it is sublime.'

  As she climbed to her feet she smiled before adding breezily, 'Now, it's not every day you're invited to contribute in such a physical way to repopulating the world, is it?'

  'Er, no… no, it's not.'

  She left me feeling a trifle dazed and with her extraordinary invitation still hanging in the air. I would certainly have to think that one over for a bit.

  At that moment, despite the shock of finding myself in darkness when there should have been daylight, and my alarm at the incursion of triffids that had crossed the Solent to land on the beach at Bytewater, I still believed that my life would, sooner or later, go on as before. I would continue to ferry passengers by air to the Scillies, Jersey and Guernsey, and make rarer forays deep into the mainland. I had no idea when I woke to the nightlands that all of that was over - the future I had envisaged dashed to pieces and then swept away like so much broken glass.

  ***

  Later that day the anti-triffid squads arrived in their protective gear, armed with triffid guns. These teams of men and women were mustered from every walk of life. As soon as the triffid alert sounded they would have dropped whatever they were doing and rushed to their designated assembly points, ready to deal with any triffid attack. With their appearance I remained convinced that life would soon return to normal.

  From an upper window of the Mother House I watched as vehicles closed in on the plants, their headlights blazing. Within minutes the triffids were being efficiently decapitated, thus depriving them of their ability to sting. Then, one by one, they were toppled and their stumpy timber legs were hacked away. After that, the stems and woody boles were hauled off to be processed and pulped as if they were nothing more sinister than bales of waste paper.