The farmer snorted. “A tramp more like. You couldn't see because the light wasn't on.”
His man shook his head emphatically. “Light weren't that bad. I tell you, whatever it was, it come right up to me and touched me.” He stopped, and pointed to the edge of the stall. “Look there! See, I weren't telling you no lie, master. It was a ghost, and there's its wet hand-print.”
They crowded round and examined the worn and chewed timber at the corner of the partition between two stalls. An indefinite patch of moisture darkened the wood. Gregory's thoughts went back to his experience on the pond, and again he felt the prickle of unease along his spine. But the farmer said stoutly, “Nonsense, it's a bit of cowslime. Now you get on with the milking, Bert, and let's have no more hossing about, because I want my tea. Where's Cuff?”
Bert looked defiant.
“If you don't believe me, maybe you'll believe the bitch. She saw whatever it was and went for it. It kicked her over, but she ran it out of here.”
“I'll see if I can see her,” Gregory said.
He ran outside and began calling the bitch. By now it was almost entirely dark. He could see nothing moving in the wide space of the front yard, and so set off in the other direction, down the path towards the pig sties and the fields, calling Cuff as he went. He paused. Low and savage growls sounded ahead, under the elm trees. It was Cuff. He went slowly forward. At this moment, he cursed that electric light meant lack of lanterns, and wished too that he had a weapon.
“Who's there?” he called. The farmer came up by his side. “Let's charge 'em!”
They ran forward. The trunks of the four great elms were clear against the western sky, with water glinting leadenly be– hind them. The dog became visible. As Gregory saw Cuff, she sailed into the air, whirled round, and flew at the farmer. He flung up his arms and warded off the body. At the same time, Gregory felt a rush of air as if someone unseen had run past him, and a stale muddy smell filled his nostrils. Staggering, he looked behind him. The wan light from the cowsheds spread across the path between the outhouses and the farmhouse. Beyond the light, more distantly, was the silent countryside behind the grain store. Nothing untoward could be seen.
“They killed my old Cuff,” said the farmer.
Gregory knelt down beside him to look at the bitch. There was no mark of injury on her, but she was dead, her fine head lying limp.
“She knew there was something there,” Gregory said. “She went to attack whatever it was and it got her first. What was it? Whatever in the world was it?”
“They killed my old Cuff,” said the farmer again, unhearing. He picked the body up in his arms, turned, and carried it towards the house. Gregory stood where he was, mind and heart equally uneasy.
He jumped violently when a step sounded nearby. It was Bert Neckland.
“What, did that there ghost kill the old bitch?” he asked.
“It killed the bitch certainly, but it was something more terrible than a ghost.”
“That's one of them ghosts, bor. I seen plenty in my time. I ent afraid of ghosts, are you?”
“You looked fairly sick in the cowshed a minute ago.”
The farmhand put his fists on his hips. He was no more than a couple of years older than Gregory, a stocky young man with a spotty complexion and a snub nose that gave him at once an air of comedy and menace. “Is that so, Master Gregory? Well, you looks pretty funky standing there now.”
“I am scared. I don't mind admitting it. But only because we have something here a lot nastier than any specter.”
Neckland came a little closer.
“Then if you are so tilooming windy, perhaps you'll be staying away from the farm in the future.” '
“Certainly not.” He tried to edge back into the light, but the laborer got in his way. “If I was you, I, should stay away.” He emphasized his point by digging an elbow into Gregory's coat. “And just remember that Nancy was interested in me long afore you come'along, bor.”
“Oh, that's it, is iti I think Nancy can decide for herself in whom she is interested, don't you?”
“I'm telling you who she's interested in, see? And mind you don't forget, see?” He emphasized the words with another nudge. Gregory pushed his arm away angrily. Neckland shrugged his shoulders and walked off. As he went, he said, “You're going to get worse than ghosts if you keep hanging round here.”
Gregory was shaken. The suppressed violence in the man's voice suggested that he had been harboring malice for some time. Unsuspectingly, Gregory had always gone out of his way to be cordial, had regarded the sullenness as mere slow– wittedness and done his socialist best to overcome the barrier between them. He thought of following Neckland and trying to make it up with him; but that would look too feeble. Instead, he followed the way the farmer had gone with his dead bitch, and made for the house.
Gregory Rolles was too late back to Cottersall that night to meet his friend Fox. The next night, the weather became exceedingly chill and Gabriel Woodcock, the oldest inhabitant, was prophesying snow before the winter was out (a not very venturesome prophecy to be fulfilled within forty-eight hours, thus impressing most of the inhabitants of the village, for they took pleasure in being impressed and exclaiming and saying “Well I never!” to each other). The two friends met in “The Wayfarer,” where the fires were bigger, though the ale was weaker, than in “The Three Poachers” at the other end of the village.
Seeing to it that nothing dramatic was missed from his account, Gregory related the affairs of the previous day, omitting any reference to Neckland's pugnacity. Fox listened fascinated, neglecting both his pipe and his ale.
“So you see how it is, Bruce,” Gregory concluded. “In that deep pond by the mill lurks a vehicle of some sort, the very one we saw in the sky, and in it lives an invisible being of evil intent. You see how I fear for my friends there. Should I tell the police about it, do you think?”
“I'm sure it would not help the Grendons to have old Farrish bumping out there on his pennyfarthing,” Fox said, referring to the local representative of the law. He took a long draw first on the pipe and then on the glass. “But I'm not sure you have your conclusions quite right, Greg. Understand, I don't doubt the facts, amazing though they are. I mean, we were more or less expecting celestial visitants. The world's recent blossoming with gas and electric lighting in its cities at night must have been a signal to half the nations of space that we are now civ– ilized down here. But have our visitants done any deliberate harm to anyone?”
“They nearly drowned me and they killed poor Cuff. I don't see what you're getting at. They haven't begun in a very friendly fashion, have they now?”
“Think what the situation must seem like to them. Suppose they come from Mars or the Moonwe know their world must be absolutely different from Earth. They may be terrified. And it can hardly be called an unfriendly act to try and get into your rowing boat. The first unfriendly act was yours, when you struck out with the oar.”
Gregory bit his lip. His friend had a point. “I was scared.”
“It may have been because they were scared that they killed Cuff. The dog attacked them, after all, didn't she? I feel sorry for these creatures, alone in an unfriendly world.”
“You keep saying 'these!' As far as we know, there is only one of them.”
“My point is this, Greg. You have completely gone back on your previous enlightened attitude. You are all for killing these poor things instead of trying to speak to them. Remember what you were saying about other worlds being full of socialists? Try thinking of these chaps as invisible socialists and see if that doesn't make them easier to deal with.”
Gregory fell to stroking his chin. Inwardly, he acknowledged that Bruce Fox's words made a great impression on him. He had allowed panic to prejudice his judgment; as a result, he had behaved as immoderately as a savage in some remote corner of the Empire, confronted by his first steam locomotive.
“I'd better get back to the farm and sort things out
as soon as possible,” he said. “If these things really do need help, I'll help them.”
“That's it. But try not to think of them as 'things.' Think of them asas1 know, as The Aurigans.”
“Aurigans it is. But don't be so smug, Bruce. If you'd been in that boat-” “I know, old friend. I'd have died of fright.” To this monument of tact, Fox added, “Do as you say, go back and sort things out as soon as possible. I'm longing for the ne)rt install– ment of this mystery. It's quite the joUiest thing since Sheriock Holmes.”
Gregory Rolles went back to the farm. But the sorting out of which Bruce had spoken took longer than he expected. This was chiefly because the Aurigans seemed to have settled quietly into their new home after the initial day's troubles.
They came forth no more from the pond, as far as he could discover; at least they caused no more disturbance. The young graduate particularly regretted this since he had taken his friend's words much to heart, and wanted to prove how enlightened and benevolent he was towards this strange form of life. After some days, he came to believe the Aurigans must have left as unexpectedly as they arrived. Then a minor incident convinced him otherwise; and that same night, in his snug room over the baker's shop, he described it to his correspondent in Worcester Park, Surrey. Dear Mr. Wells,
I must apologize for my failure to write earlier, owing to lack of news concerning the Grendon Farm affair.
Only today, the Aurigans showed themselves again!If in– deed “showed” is the right word for invisible creatures.
Nancy Grendon and I were in the orchard feeding the hens. There is still much snow lying about, and everywhere is very white. As the poultry came running to Nancy's tub, I saw a disturbance further down the orchardmerely some snow dropping from an apple bough, but the movement caught my eye, and then I saw a procession of falling snow proceed towards us from tree to tree. The grass is long there, and I soon noted the stalks being thrust aside by an unknown agency! I directed Nancy's attention to the phenomenon. The motion in the grass stopped only a few yards from us.
Nancy was startled, but I determined to acquit myself more like a Briton than I had previously. Accordingly, I advanced and said, “Who are you? What do you want? We are your friends if you are friendly.”
No answer came. I stepped forward again, and now the grass again fell back, and I could see by the way it was pressed down that the creature must have large feet. By the movement of the grasses, I could see he was running. I cried to him and ran too. He went round the side of the house, and then over the frozen mud in the farmyard. I could see no further trace of him. But instinct led me forward, past the barn to the pond.
Surely enough, I then saw the cold, muddy water rise and heave, as if engulfing a body that slid quietly in. Shards of broken ice were thrust aside, and by an outward motion, I could see where the strange being went. In a flurry and a small whirlpool, he was gone, and I have no doubt dived down to the mysterious star vehicle.
These thingspeople1 know not what to call themmust be aquatic; perhaps they live in the canals of the Red Planet. But imagine, Siran invisible mankind! The idea is almost as wonderful and fantastic as something from your novel, “The Time Machine.”
Pray give me your comment, and trust in my sanity and accuracy as a reporter!
Yours in friendship,
Gregory Rolles.
What he did not tell was the way Nancy had clung to him after, in the warmth of the parlor, and confessed her fear. And he had scorned the idea that these beings could be hostile, and had seen the admiration in her eyes, and had thought that she was, after all, a dashed pretty girl, and perhaps worth braving the wrath of those two very different people for: Edward Rolles, his father, and Bert Neckland, the farm laborer.
It was at lunch a week later, when Gregory was again at the farm, taking with him an article on electricity as a pretext for his visit, that the subject of the stinking dew was first discussed.
Grubby was the first to mention it in Gregory's hearing. Grubby, with Bert Neckland, formed the whole strength of Joseph Grendon's labor force; but whereas Neckland was considered couth enough to board in the farmhouse (he had a gaunt room in the attic), Grubby was fit only to sleep in a little flint-and-chalk hut well away from the farm buildings. His “house,” as he dignified the miserable hut, stood below the orchard and near the sties, the occupants of which lulled Grubby to sleep with their snorts.
“Reckon we ent ever had a dew like that before, Mr. Grendon,” he said, his manner suggesting to Gregory that he had made this observation already this morning; Grubby never ventured to say anything original.
“Heavy as an autumn dew,” said the farmer firmly, as if there had been an argument on the point.
Silence fell, broken only by a general munching and, from Grubby, a particular guzzling, as they all made their way through huge platefuls of stewed rabbit and dumplings.
“It weren't no ordinary dew, that I do know,” Grubby said after a while.
“It stank of toadstools,” Neckland said. “Or rotten pond water.”
More munching.
“It may be something to do with the pond,” Gregory said. “Some sort of freak of evaporation.”
Neckland snorted. From his position at the top of the table, . the farmer halted his shovelling operations to point a fork at Gregory.
“You may well be right there. Because I tell you what, that there dew only come down on our land and property. A yard the other side of the gate, the road was dry. Bone dry it was.”
“Right you are there, master,” Neckland agreed. “And while the West Field was dripping with the stuff, I saw for myself that the bracken over the hedge weren't wet at all. Ah, it's a rum go!”
“Say what you like, we ent ever had dew like it,” Grubby said. He appeared to be summing up the feeling of the company.
The strange dew did not fall again. As a topic of conversa– tion, it was limited, and even on the farm, where there was little new to talk about, it was forgotten in a few days. The Feb– ruary passed, being neither much worse nor much better than most Februaries, and ended in heavy rainstorms. March came, letting in a chilly spring over the land. The animals on the farm began to bring forth their young.
They brought them forth in amazing numbers, as if to over– turn all the farmer's beliefs in the unproductiveness of his land.
“I never seen anything like it!” Grendon said to Gregory. Nor had Gregory seen the taciturn farmer so excited. He took the young man by the arm and marched him into the barn.
There lay Trix, the nannie goat. Against her flank huddled three little brown and white kids, while a fourth stood nearby, wobbling on its spindly legs. “Four on 'em! Have you ever heard of a goat throwing off four kids? You better write to the papers in London about this. Gregory! But just you come down to the pig sties.”
The squealing from the sties was louder than usual. As they marched down the path towards them, Gregory looked up at the great elms, their outlines dusted in green, and thought he detected something sinister in the noises, something hysterical that was perhaps matched by an element in Grendon's own bearing.
The Grendon pigs were mixed breeds, with a preponderance of Large Blacks. They usually gave litters of something like ten piglets. Now there was not a litter without fourteen in it; and one enormous black sow had eighteen small pigs swarming about her. The noise was tremendous and, standing looking down on this swarming life, Gregory told himself that he was foolish to imagine anything uncanny in it; he knew so little about farm life. After he had eaten with Grendon and the men Mrs. Grendon and Nancy had driven to town in the trap– Gregory went by himself to look about the farm, still with a deep and (he told himself) unreasoning sense of disturbance inside him.
A pale sunshine filled the afternoon. It could not penetrate far down into the water of the pond. But as Gregory stood by the horse trough staring at the expanse of water, he saw that it teemed with young tadpoles and frogs. He went closer. What he had regarded as a sheet of rath
er stagnant water was alive with small swimming things. As he looked, a great beetle surged out of the depths and seized a tadpole. The tadpoles were also providing food for two ducks that, with their young, were swimming by the reeds on the far side of the pond. And how many young did the ducks have? An armada of chicks was there, parading in and out of the rushes.
For a minute, he stood uncertainly, then began to walk slowly back the way he had come. Crossing the yard, Gregory went over to the stable and saddled Daisy. He swung himself up and rode away without bidding goodbye to anyone.
Riding into Cottersall, he went straight to the market place. He saw the Grendon trap, with Nancy's little pony, Hetty, between the shafts, standing outside the grocer's shop. Mrs. Grendon and Nancy were just coming out. Jumping to the ground, Gregory led Daisy over to them and bid them good day.
“We are going to call on my friend Mrs. Edwards and her daughters,” Mrs. Grendon said.
“If you would be so kind, Mrs. Grendon, I would be very obliged if I might speak privately with Nancy. My landlady, Mrs. Fenn, has a little downstairs parlor at the back of the shop, and I know she would let us speak there. It would be quite respectable.”
“Drat respectable! Let people think what they will, I say.” All the same, she stood for some time in meditation. Nancy remained by her mother with her eyes on the ground. Gregory looked at her and seemed to see her anew. Under her blue coat, fur-trimmed, she wore her orange-and-brown squared gingham dress; she had a bonnet on her head. Her complexion was pure and blemishless, her skin as firm and delicate as a plum, and her dark eyes were hidden under long lashes. Her lips were steady, pale, and clearly defined, with appealing tucks at each corner. He felt almost like a thief, stealing a sight of her beauty while she was not regarding him.
“I'm going on to Mrs. Edwards,” Marjorie Grendon declared at last. “I don't care what you two do so long as you behavebut I shall, mind, if you aren't with me in a half-hour, Nancy, do you hear?”
The Saliva Tree Page 2
