ADOLESCENTS ONLY By Irving Cox, Jr. - https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/32651/pg32651-images.html

 

Naturally the Schermerhorn twins were popular tenth graders—husky, blond Greek Gods who had everything, including a red Convertible and a swimming pool Pop Schermerhorn had built for them at the ranch. Gary Elvin had expected a certain number of parties when he decided to board and room with the Schermerhorns, but hardly one every weekend.

 Elvin spent the rest of the weekend planning his revenge. He didn't think of it as that, but rather disciplinary action. Yet he knew the class would get the point and possibly even heed the implied warning. In five years Elvin had reduced the complex process of teaching to one workable rule: break the class, or the kids will break you.

When the appointed hour arrived, I presented myself at the mosque, which is situated outside the city walls of Kairwan, not far from the Bab-el-Djuluddin, or Tanners’ Gate. Passing through an open courtyard into the main building, I was received with a dignified salaam by the sheik, who forthwith led me to a platform or divan at the upper end of the central space. This was surmounted by a ribbed and white-washed dome, and was separated from two side aisles by rows of marble columns with battered capitals, dating from the Empire of Rome. Between the arches of the roof small and feeble lamps—mere lighted wicks floating on dingy oil in cups of coloured glass—ostrich eggs, and gilt balls were suspended from wooden beams. From the cupola in the centre hung a dilapidated chandelier in which flickered a few miserable candles. In one of the side aisles a plastered tomb was visible behind an iron lattice. The mise en scène was unprepossessing and squalid. My attention was next turned to the dramatis personae. Upon the floor in the centre beneath the dome sat the musicians, ten or a dozen in number, cross-legged, the chief presiding upon a stool at the head of the circle. I observed no instrument save the darabookah, or earthen drum, and a number of tambours, the skins of which, stretched tightly across the frames, gave forth, when struck sharply by the fingers, a hollow and resonant note. The rest of the orchestra was occupied by the chorus. So far no actors were visible. The remainder of the floor, both under the dome and in the aisles, was thickly covered with seated and motionless figures, presenting in the fitful light a weird and fantastic picture. In all there must have been over a hundred persons, all males, in the mosque. Presently the sheik gave the signal for commencement, and in a moment burst forth the melancholy chant of the Arab voices and the ceaseless droning of the drums. The song was not what we should call singing, but a plaintive and quavering wail, pursued in a certain cadence, now falling to a moan, now terminating in a shriek, but always pitiful, piercing and inexpressibly sad. The tambours, which were struck like the keyboard of a piano, by the outstretched fingers of the hand, and, occasionally, when a louder note was required, by the thumb, kept up a monotonous refrain in the background. From time to time, at moments of greater stress, they were brandished high in the air and beaten with all the force of fingers and thumb combined. Then the noise was imperious and deafening. Among the singers, one grizzled and bearded veteran, with a strident and nasal intonation, surpassed his fellows. He observed the time with grotesque reflections of his body; his eyes were fixed and shone with religious zeal. The chant proceeded, and the figures of the singers, as they became more and more excited, rocked to and fro. More people poured in at the doorway, and the building was now quite full. I began to wonder whether the musicians were also to be the performers, or when the latter would make their appearance. Suddenly a line of four or five Arabs formed itself in front of the entrance on the far side of the orchestra, and exactly opposite the bench on which I was sitting. They joined hands, the right of each clasped in the left of his neighbour, and began a lurching, swaying motion with their bodies and feet. At first they appeared simply to be marking time, first with one foot and then with the other; but the movement was gradually communicated to every member of their bodies; and from the crown of the head to the soles of the feet they were presently keeping time with the music in convulsive jerks and leaps and undulations, the music itself being regulated by the untiring orchestra of the drums. This mysterious row of bobbing figures seemed to exercise an irresistible fascination over the spectators. Every moment one or other of these left his place to join its ranks. They pushed their way into the middle, severing the chain for an instant, or joined themselves on to the ends. The older men appeared to have a right to the centre, the boys and children—for there were youngsters present not more than seven or eight years old—were on the wings. Thus the line ever lengthened; originally it consisted of three or four, presently it was ten or twelve, anon it was twenty-five or thirty, and before the self-torturings commenced there were as many as forty human figures stretching right across the building, and all rocking backwards and forwards in grim and ungraceful unison, Even the spectators who kept their places could not resist the contagion; as they sat there they unconsciously kept time with their heads and shoulders, and one child swung his little head this way and that with a fury that threatened to separate it from his body. Meanwhile, the music had been growing in intensity, the orchestra sharing the excitement, which they communicated. The drummers beat their tambours with redoubled force, lifting them high above their heads and occasionally, at some extreme pitch, tossing them aloft and catching them again as they fell. Sometimes in the exaltation of frenzy they started spasmodically to their feet and then sank back into their original position. But ever and without a pause continued the insistent accompaniment of the drums. And now the oscillating line in front of the doorway for the first time found utterance. As they leaped high on one foot, alternately kicking out the other, as their heads wagged to and fro and their bodies quivered with the muscular strain, they cried aloud in praise of Allah. La ilaha ill Allah! (There is no God but Allah)—this was the untiring burden of their strain. And then came Ya Allah! (O God), and sometimes Ya Kahhar! (O avenging God), Ya Hakk! (O just God), while each burst of clamorous appeal culminated in an awful shout of Ya Hoo! (O Him). The rapidity and vehemence of their gesticulations was now appalling; their heads swung backwards and forwards till their foreheads almost touched their breasts, and their scalps smote against their backs. Sweat poured from their faces; they panted for breath; and the exclamations burst from their mouths in a thick and stertorous murmur. Suddenly, and without warning, the first phase of the zikr ceased, and the actors stood gasping, shaking, and dripping with perspiration. After a few seconds’ respite the performance recommenced, and shortly waxed more furious than ever. The worshippers seemed to be gifted with an almost superhuman strength and energy. As they flung themselves to and fro, at one moment their upturned faces gleamed with a sickly polish under the flickering lamps, at the next their turbaned heads all but brushed the floor. Their eyes started from the sockets; the muscles on their necks and the veins on their foreheads stood out like knotted cords. One old man fell out of the ranks, breathless, spent, and foaming. His place was taken by another, and the tumultuous orgy went on. Presently, as the ecstasy approached its height and the fully initiated became melboos or possessed, they broke from the stereotyped litany into domoniacal grinning and ferocious and bestial cries. These writhing and contorted objects were no longer rational human beings, but savage animals, caged brutes howling madly in the delirium of hunger or of pain. They growled like bears, they barked like jackals, they roared like lions, they laughed like hyænas; and ever and anon from the seething rank rose a diabolical shriek, like the scream of a dying horse, or the yell of a tortured fiend. And steadily the while in the background resounded the implacable reverberation of the drums. The climax was now reached; the requisite pitch of cataleptic inebriation had been obtained, and the rites of Aissa were about to begin. From the crowd at the door a wild figure broke forth, tore off his upper clothing till he was naked to the waist, and, throwing away his fez, bared a head close-shaven save for one long and dishevelled lock that, springing from the scalp, fell over his forehead like some grisly and funereal plume. A long knife, somewhat resembling a cutlass, was handed to him by the sheik, who had risen to his feet, and who directed the phenomena that ensued. Waving it wildly above his head and protruding the forepart of his figure, the fanatic brought it down blow after blow against his bared stomach, and drew it savagely to and fro against the unprotected skin. There showed the marks of a long and livid weal, but no blood spurted from the gash. In the intervals between the strokes he ran swiftly from one side to the other of the open space, taking long stealthy strides like a panther about to spring, and seemingly so powerless over his own movements that he knocked blindly up against those who stood in his way, nearly upsetting them with the violence of the collision. The prowess or the piety of this ardent devotee proved extraordinarily contagious. First one and then another of his brethren caught the afflatus and followed his example. In a few moments every part of the mosque was the scene of some novel and horrible rite of self-mutilation, performed by a fresh aspirant to the favour of Allah. Some of these feats did not rise above the level of the curious but explicable performances which are sometimes seen upon English stages; e.g., of the men who swallow swords, and carry enormous weights suspended from their jaws; achievements which are in no sense a trick or a deception, but are to be attributed to abnormal physical powers or structure developed by long and often perilous practice. In the Aissaiouian counterpart of these displays there was nothing specially remarkable, but there were others less commonplace and more difficult of explanation. At length, several long iron spits or prongs were produced and distributed; these formidable implements were about two and a half feet in length and sharply pointed, and they terminated at the handle in a circular wooden knob about the size of a large orange. There was great competition for these instruments of torture, which were used as follows: Poising one in the air, an Aissioui would suddenly force the point into the flesh of his own shoulder in front just below the shoulder blade. Thus transfixed, and holding the weapon aloft, he strode swiftly up and down. Suddenly, at a signal, he fell on his knees, still forcing the point into his body, and keeping the wooden head uppermost. Then there started up another disciple armed with a big wooden mallet, and he, after a few preliminary taps, rising high on tip-toe with uplifted weapon would, with an ear-splitting yell, bring it down with all his force upon the wooden knob, driving the point home through the shoulder of his comrade. Blow succeeded blow, the victim wincing beneath the stroke, but uttering no sound, and fixing his eyes with a look of ineffable delight upon his torturer, till the point was driven right through the shoulder and projected at the back. Then the patient marched backwards and forwards with the air and the gait of a conquering hero. At one moment there were four of these semi-naked maniacs within a yard of my feet, transfixed and trembling, but beatified and triumphant. Amid the cries and the swelter, there never ceased for one second the sullen and menacing vociferation of the drums. Another man seized an iron skewer, and, placing the point within his open jaws, forced it steadily through his cheek until it protruded a couple of inches on the outside. He barked savagely like a dog, and foamed at the lips. Others, afflicted with exquisite spasms of hunger, knelt down before the chief, whimpering like children for food, and turning upon him imploring glances from their glazed and bloodshot eyes. His control over his following was supreme. Some he gratified, others he forbade. At a touch from him, they were silent and relaxed into quiescence. One maddened wretch who, fancying himself some wild beast, plunged to and fro, roaring horribly, and biting and tearing with his teeth at whomever he met, was advancing, as I thought, with somewhat truculent intent in my direction, when he was arrested by his superior and sent back, cringing and cowed. For those whose ravenous appetites he was content to humour the most singular repast was prepared. A plate was brought in, covered with huge jagged pieces of broken glass, as thick as a shattered soda-water bottle. With greedy chuckles and gurglings of delight, one of the hungry ones dashed at it, crammed a handful into his mouth, and crunched it up as though it were some exquisite dainty, a fellow-disciple calmly stroking the exterior of his throat, with intent, I suppose, to lubricate the descent of the unwonted morsels. A little child held up a snake or a sand-worm by the tail, placing the head between his teeth, and gulped it gleefully down. Several acolytes came in, carrying a big stem of the prickly pear, or fico d’India, whose leaves are as thick as a one-inch plank, and are armed with huge projecting thorns. This was ambrosia to the starving saints. They rushed at it with passionate emulation, tearing at the solid slabs with their teeth, and gnawing and munching the coarse fibers, regardless of the thorns which pierced their tongues and cheeks as they swallowed them down. The most singular feature of all, and the one that almost defies belief, though it is none the less true, was this—that in no case did one drop of blood emerge from scar, or gash, or wound. This fact I observed most carefully, the mokaddem standing at my side, and each patient in turn coming to him when his self-imposed torture had been accomplished, and the cataleptic frenzy had spent its force. It was the chief who cunningly withdrew the blade from cheek or shoulder or body, rubbing over the spot what appeared to me to be the saliva of his own mouth; then he whispered an absolution in the ear of the disciple, and kissed him on the forehead, whereupon the patient, but a moment before writhing in maniacal transports, retired tranquilly and took his seat upon the floor. He seemed none the worse for his recent paroxysm, and the wound was marked only by a livid blotch or a hectic flush. This was the scene that for more than an hour went on without pause or intermission before my eyes. The building might have been tenanted by the Harpies or Laestrygones of Homer, or by some inhuman monsters of legendary myth. Amid the dust and sweat and insufferable heat the naked bodies of the actors shone with a ghastly pallor and exhaled a sickening smell. The atmosphere reeked with heavy and intoxicating fumes. Above the despairing chant of the singers rang the frenzied yells of the possessed, the shrieks of the hammerer, and the inarticulate cries, the snarling and growling, the bellowing and miauling of the self-imagined beasts. And ever behind and through all re-echoed the perpetual and pitiless imprecation of the drums. As I witnessed the disgusting spectacle and listened to the pandemonium of sounds, my head swam, my eyes became dim, my senses reeled, and I believed that in a few moments I must have fainted, had not one of my friends touched me on the shoulder, and, whispering that the mokaddem was desirous that I should leave, escorted me hurriedly to the door. As I walked back to my quarters, and long after through the still night, the beat of the tambours continued, and I heard the distant hum of voices, broken at intervals by an isolated and piercing cry. Perhaps yet further and more revolting orgies were celebrated after I had left. I had not seen, as other travellers have done, the chewing and swallowing of red-hot cinders,1 or the harmless handling and walking upon live coals. I had been spared that which others have described as the climax of the gluttonous debauch, viz., the introduction of a live sheep, which then and there is savagely torn to pieces and devoured raw by these unnatural banqueters. But I had seen enough, and as I sank to sleep my agitated fancy pursued a thousand avenues of thought, confounding in one grim medley all the carnivorous horrors of fact and fable and fiction. Loud above the din and discord the tale of the false prophets of Carmel, awakened by the train of association, rang in my ears, till I seemed to hear intoned with remorseless repetition the words: “They cried aloud and cut themselves after their manner with knives and lancets, till the blood gushed out upon them”; and in the ever-receding distance of dreamland, faint and yet fainter, there throbbed the inexorable and unfaltering delirium of the drums.

jekyll-hyde planet BY JACK LEWIS - https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/59403/pg59403-images.html

 Centifor was a paradise planet,
another Garden of Eden. And Leon
Stubbs was the serpent of temptation....

 You see, Billy, things back on Earth are pretty bad—have been for over a hundred years now. There's too many cities, too many wars, and too many people—it's mostly too many people. They don't have room to move around any more the way they used to...

Bow Sam stood in the doorway by his sugar-cane stand and watched with narrowed eyes an old man who shuffled uncertainly down the alley towards him. “Hoo la ma!” cried Bow Sam, in surprised Cantonese as the old man drew near. “Hello, there! I scarcely knew you, venerable Fa’ng!” Fa’ng, the hatchetman, straightened his bent shoulders and looked up. There was a gleam in his deep bronze eyes that was hardly in keeping with his withered frame. “Hoo la ma, Bow Sam,” he said, his voice strangely deep and vibrant. “You have grown very thin,” remarked Bow Sam with friendly interest. “Hi low; that is true. But why carry around flesh that is not food?” The sugar-cane vendor eyed the other shrewdly. What was the gossip he had heard concerning Fa’ng, the famous old hatchetman? Was it not that the old man was always hungry? Yes, that was it! Fa’ng, whose long knife and swift arm had been the most feared thing in all Chinatown, was starving—too proud to beg, too honest to steal. “You have eaten well, venerable Fa’ng?” The inquiry was in a casual tone, respectful. “Aih, I have eaten well,” replied the old hatchetman, averting his face. “How unfortunate for me! I have not yet eaten my rice; for when one must dine alone, one goes slowly to table. Is it not written that a bowl of rice shared is doubly enjoyed? Would you not at least have a cup of tea while I eat my mean fare?” “I shall be honoured to sip tea with you, estimable Bow Sam,” replied the hatchetman with poorly disguised eagerness. “Then condescend to enter my poor house! Ah, one does not often have the pleasure of your company in these days!” Bow Sam preceded his guest to the wretched hovel that was the sugar-cane vendor’s only home. There he quickly removed all trace of the bowl of rice he had eaten but a moment before. “Will you take this poor stool, venerable Fa’ng?” said Bow, setting out the only stool he possessed, and placing it so that the hatchetman’s back would be to the stove. Wearily, Fa’ng sat down. Bow put out two small cups, each worn and badly chipped, and filled them with hot tea. Then, while the hatchetman sipped his tea, Bow uncovered the rice kettle. There was but one bowl of rice left. Bow Sam had intended to keep it for his evening meal; for until he sold some sugar-cane, he had no way of obtaining more food. Behind Fa’ng’s back, Bow took two rice bowls and set them on the stove. One bowl he heaped full for the hatchetman. In the other he put an upturned tea bowl and sprinkled over it his last few grains of rice. “Let us give thanks to the gods of the kitchen that we have food and teeth and appetite,” chuckled Bow Sam, seating himself on a sugar-cane box opposite Fa’ng. “Well spoken,” returned the old hatchetman, quickly filling his mouth with the nourishing rice. “Aih, there is much in life to make one content.” With his chop-sticks Bow Sam deftly took up a few grains of rice, taking care lest he uncover the upturned tea bowl. He was deeply grateful that he had a few teeth left, that he quite often had enough rice, and sometimes had meat as often as once a month; but to hear the proud old hatchetman express such sentiments on an empty stomach filled him with admiration. “What a virtue to be content with one’s lot!” he exclaimed, refilling the hatchetman’s tea bowl. “Yet the younger generation are always fretting because they think they have not enough; while, as anyone knows, they have much more than we who first came to this land of the white foreign devil.” “They are young,” spoke Fa’ng, nodding his head slowly. “For us the days have fled, the years have not tarried. And we have learned that if one has but a bowl of rice for food and a bent arm for pillow, one can be content.” “Haie! How can you speak so softly of the younger generation when it is they who have robbed you of your livelihood? I know the gossip. You, the most famous killer in Chinatown, find yourself cast out like a worn-out broom by these young upstarts who have no respect for their elders. Is it not true?” With his left hand the old hatchetman made an eloquent gesture, peculiarly Chinese, much as one quickly throws open a fan. “Of what value are words, my friend? They cannot change that which is changeless. A word cannot temper the wind, nor a phrase procure food for a hungry stomach.” “Nevertheless, I do not like such things,” persisted Sam. “I love the old ways. You were an honourable and fearless killer. When you were hired to slay one’s enemy you went boldly to your victim and told him your business. Then, swiftly, even before the doomed one could open his lips, you struck—cleaned your blade and walked your way. “The modern killers!” Bow Sam spewed the words out as one does sour rice. “They are too cowardly to use the knife. They hide on roofs, fire on their victims, then throw away their guns and flee like thieves. Aih, what have we come to in these days! “It was but yesterday after mid-day rice that I had speech with Gar Ling, a gunman of the Sin Wah tong. He stopped to buy sugar-cane, and I told him that had I the money I would hire him. There is one of the younger generation, the pock-marked son of Quong, the dealer in jade, who has greatly wronged me and my honourable family name, and my distinguished ancestors. As you very well know, one cannot soil one’s own hands with the blood of vengeance. Moreover, I have no weapon, not even a dull cleaver. Neither can I afford to hire a fighting man. “I was telling all this to Gar Ling,” went on Bow, straining the last drop of tea into Fa’ng’s bowl, “and he told me he would settle my quarrel, but it would cost one thousand dollars. When I told him I had not even a thousand copper cash, he became angry and abusive. As he walked his way, quickly, like a foreign devil, he spat in my direction and called me an unspeakable name.” “Ts, ts! You should have wrung his neck. Repeat to me his unspeakable words.” “He said,” cried Bow Sam, his face twisted in fury, “that I am the son of a turtle!” “Aih-yah! How insulting! As anyone knows, in all our language there is no epithet more vile!” “That is true. But what is even worse, I did not remember until after he had gone that he had not paid me for the piece of sugar-cane. Such is the way of the younger generation; and we, who have been long in the land, can do nothing.” “Yet it is by such things that one learns the lesson of enduring tranquillity,” remarked Fa’ng, smacking his lips and moving back from the table. For about the time, then, that it takes one to make nine bows before the household gods, neither man made speech. Then Fa’ng arose. “An excellent bowl of rice, my good friend.” “Aih, it shames me to have to give you such mean fare.” “And the tea was most fragrant.” “Ts, it was only the cheapest Black Dragon.” The two old men went to the door. “Ho hang la,” said the hatchetman. “Ho hang la,” echoed the sugar-cane vendor. “I hope you have a safe walk.” Fa’ng, the hatchetman, made his way down the alley to the rear entrance of a pawnshop. There he spoke a few words with the proprietor. “I know you are honest, old man,” said the pawnbroker. “But instead of bringing it back, I hope, for your own sake, you will be able to pay what you owe me.” Then from a safe he took a knife with long, slender blade and a handle of ebony in which had been carved an unbelievable number of notches. Fa’ng took the knife, handling it as one does an object of precious memories, concealed it beneath his tattered blouse, and went his way. Near the entrance of a gambling house in Canton Alley the old hatchetman met the pock-marked son of Quong, the dealer in jade. “For the wrong you have done Bow Sam, his family name, and his distinguished ancestors,” said Fa’ng quietly; and before the other could open his lips the long blade was through his heart. In front of a cigar store in Shanghai Place, Fa’ng found Gar Ling, the gunman. “I have business of moment with you, Gar Ling,” said the hatchetman. “Come.” Gar Ling hesitated. He stood in great fear of the old killer, yet he dared not show that fear before his young friends. So with his left hand he gave a peculiar signal. A boy standing near with a basket of lichee nuts on his arm turned quickly and followed the two men down the alley. Drawing near his employer, the boy held up the basket as though soliciting the gunman to buy. Gar’s hand darted swiftly into the basket, beneath the lichee nuts, and came out with a heavy automatic pistol which he quickly concealed beneath his blouse. The old hatchetman knew all the tricks of the young gunman, but he pretended he had not seen. As they turned a dark corner, he paused. “For the insulting words you spoke to Bow Sam,” he said calmly, and the long blade glided between the gunman’s ribs. As Fa’ng drew the steel away, Gar Ling staggered, fired once, then collapsed. Bow Sam stood in the doorway by his sugar-cane stand and watched with narrowed eyes an old man who shuffled uncertainly down the alley toward him. “Hoo la ma!” he cried, as the old man drew near. “I did not expect to see you again so soon.” The old hatchetman did not raise his head nor reply. Staggering, he crossed the threshold and fell on his face on the littered floor. With a throaty cry Bow Sam slammed the door shut. He bent over Fa’ng. “This knife,” said the hatchetman; “take it—to Wong the pawnbroker. Tell him—all. Worth—more—than I owe.” “But what’s——” “For the wrong that the pock-marked one did you, for the insult Gar Ling spoke to you, I slew them,” said Fa’ng, with sudden strength. “My debt is paid. Tsau kom lok.” “Haie! You did that! Why did you do that? I could never pay you! And look! Aih-yah, oh, how piteous! You are dying!” With awkward fingers, the vendor of sugar-cane tried to staunch the flow of blood where Gar Ling’s bullet had struck with deadly effect. “Pay me?” breathed Fa’ng the hatchetman. “Did you—not—feed me? Can one—put a value—on food—when the stomach—is empty? Aih, what—matters it? A life,”—his eyelids fluttered and closed—“a life—a bowl of rice....”

AVOIDANCE SITUATION BY JAMES MC CONNELL - https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/59438/pg59438-images.html

What can a man do when he alone
must decide the fate of Earth and all
its people—and when the choices
offered him are slavery and death....

 

People are accustomed to think of Somerset as a country of deep, bosky bays, sunny coves, woods, moorlands, but Hemerton was in itself sufficient to blur this bland illusion. It lay a mile and a half back from the sea, counting it all full tide; at low tide the sly, smooth waters, unbroken by a single rock, slipped away for another mile or more across a dreary ooze of black mud. The village lay pasted flat upon the marsh, with no trees worthy of the name in sight: a few twisted black-thorn bushes, a few split willows, one wreck of a giant blighted ash in the Rectory gardens, and that was all. For months on end the place swam in vapours. There were wonderful effects of sunrise and sunset, veils of crimson and gold, of every shade of blue and purple. At times the grey sea-lavender was like silver, the wet, black mud gleaming like dark opals; while at high summer there was purple willow-strife spilled thick along the ditches, giving the strange place a transitory air of warm-blooded life; but for the most part it was all as aloof and detached as a sleep-walker. The birds fitted the place as a verger fits his quiet and dusky church: herons and waders of all kinds; wild-crying curlew; and here and there a hawk, hanging motionless high overhead. There were scarcely fifty houses in Hemerton, and these were all alike, flat and brown and grey; where there had been plaster it was flaked and ashen. The very church stooped, as though shamed to a sort of poor-relation pose by the immense indifference of the mist-veiled sky—the drooping lids on a scornful face—for even at midday, in mid-summer, the heavens were never quite clear, quite blue, but still veiled and apart. The Rectory was a two-storied building, low at that, and patched with damp: small, with a narrow-chested air, tiny windows, a thin, grudging doorway, blistered paint, which gave it a leprous air; and just that one tree, with its pale, curled leaves in summer, its jangling keys in winter. It was amazing to find that any creature so warmly vital as the Rector’s daughter, Rhoda Fane, had been begotten, born, reared in such a place; spent her entire life there, apart from two years of school at Clifton, and six months in Brussels, cut short by her mother’s death. She was like a beech wood in September: ruddy, crisp, fragrant. Her hair, dark-brown, with copper lights, was so springing with life that it seemed more inclined to grow up than hang down; her face was almost round, her wide, brown eyes frank and eager. She was as good as any man with her leaping-pole: broad-shouldered, deep-breasted, with a soft, deep contralto voice. Her only brother, Hector, was four years younger than herself. Funds had run low, drained away by their mother’s illness, before it was time for him to go to school; he was too delicate for the second-best, roughing it among lads of a lower class, and so he was kept at home, taught by his father: a thin trickle of distilled classics and wavering mathematics; a good deal of history, no geography. He, in startling contrast to his sister, was a true child of the marshes: thin light hair, vellum-white, peaked face, pale grey eyes beneath an overhanging brow, large, transparent ears: narrow-chested, long-armed, stooping, so that he seemed almost a hunchback. In all ways he was the shadow of Rhoda, followed her everywhere; and as there is no shadow without the sun, so it seemed that he could scarcely have existed apart from her. Small as he already was, he almost puled himself out of life while she was away at school; and after a bare week from home she would get back to find him with the best part of his substance peeled from him, white as a willow-wand. Different as these two were, they were passionately attached to each other. The Rector was a kind father when he drew himself out of the morass of melancholy and disillusion into which he had fallen since his wife died, wilting away with damp and discontent, and sheer loathing of the soil in which it had been his misfortune to plant her. But still, at the best, he was a parent, and so apart, while there were no neighbours, no playfellows. Once or twice Rhoda’s school-friends came to stay at the Rectory, and for the first day or so it seemed delightful to talk of dress, of a gayer world, possible lovers. But after a very little while they began to pall on her: they understood nothing of what was her one absorbing interest—the natural life of the place in which she lived: were discontented, disdainful of the marshland, hated the mud, feared the fogs, shivered in the damp. Anyhow, the brother and sister were sufficient to each other, for they shared a never-failing, or even diminishing, interest—and what more can any two people wish for?—a passionate absorption in, a minute knowledge of, the wild life of the marshland; its legends and folklore; its habits and calls; the mating seasons and manners of the birds; the place and habit of every wild flower; the way of the wind with the sky, and all its portents; the changing seasons, seemingly so uneven from year to year, and yet working out so much the same in the end. They could not have said how they first came to hear of the Forest: they had always talked of it. To Hector, at least, it was so vivid that he seemed to have actually struggled through its immense depths, swung in its hanging creepers, smelt its sickly-sweet orchids, breathed its hot, damp air—so far real to both alike that they would find themselves saying, “Do you remember?” in speaking of paths that they had never traversed. Provisionally they had fixed their Forest at the Miocene Period. Or, rather, this is what it came to: the boy ceasing to protest against the winged monsters, the rhinoceros, the long-jawed mastodon which fascinated the girl’s imagination; though there was one impassioned scene when he flamed out over his clear remembrance of a sabre-toothed tiger, putting all those others—stupid, hulking brutes!—out of court by many thousands of years. “They couldn’t have been there, couldn’t—not with us and with ‘It’—I saw it, I tell you—I tell you I saw it!” His pale face flamed, his eyes were as bright as steel. “The mastodon! That’s nothing—nothing! But the sabre-toothed tiger—I tell you I saw it. What are you grinning at now?—in our Forest—ours, mind you!—I saw it!” “Oh, indeed, indeed!” Suddenly, because the day was so hot, because they were bored, because she was unwittingly impressed, as always, by her brother’s heat of conviction, Rhoda’s serene temper was gone. “And did you see yourself? and what were you doing there, may I ask—you! Silly infant, don’t you know that there weren’t any men then? Phew! Everyone knows that—everyone. You and your old tiger!” There was mockery in her laugh as she took him by the lapels of his coat; shook him. Then, next moment when he turned aside, sullen and pale, his brows in a pent-house above his eyes, she was filled with contrition. The rotten, thundery day had set her all on edge; it was a shame to tease him like this; and, after all, how often had she herself remembered back? Though there was a difference, and she knew it, a sense of fantasy, pretending; while Hector was as jealous of every detail of their Forest as a long-banished exile over every cherished memory of his own land. Though, of course, there were no men contemporary with that wretched tiger: he knew that; he must know. Lolling under their one tree, in the steamy, early afternoon, she coaxed him back to the subject, and was beaten upon it, as the half-hearted always are. He was so amazingly clear about the whole thing.... Why, it might have happened yesterday! He had been up in the trees, slinking along—not the hunting man, but the hunted—watchful, furtive; a picker-up of what other beasts had slain and taken their fill of: more watchful than usual because he had already come across a carcass left by the long-toothed terror, all the blood sucked out of it. Swinging from bough to bough by his hands—which, even when he stood upright, as upright as possible, dangled far below his knees—he had actually seen it; seen its gleaming tusks, its shining eyes; seen it, and fled, wild with terror. Was it likely that he could ever forget it? “It and its beastly teeth!” he added; then fell silent, brooding; while even Rhoda was awed to silence. It was that very evening that they found their Forest, or, rather, a part of it. They had gone over to the shore meaning to bathe, but for once their memories were at fault; and they found that the tide was out, a mere rim of molten lead on the far edge of the horizon. They were both tired, but they could not rest. They cut inland for a bit, then out again; crossing the mudflats until the mud oozed above their boots and drove them back again. They must have wandered about a long time, for the light—although it did not actually go—became illusive; the air freshened with that salty scent which tells of a flowing tide. Hector insisted that they ought to wait until it was full in, and have their bath by moonlight; but, as Rhoda pointed out, that would mean no supper, dawdling about for hours. After some time they compromised: they would go out and meet the tide; see what it was like. Almost at the water’s edge they found It—their Forest. There it was, buried like a fly in amber: twisted trunks and boughs, matted creepers, all ash-grey and black. How far it stretched up and down the shore they could not have said, the time was too short, the sea too near for any exploration; but not far, they thought, or they must have discovered it before. “Nothing more than a fold out of the world, squeezed up to the surface”; that was what they agreed upon. They divided and ran in opposite directions—“Just to try and find out,” as Rhoda said. But after a few yards, a couple of dozen, maybe, they called back to each other that they had lost it. The darkness gathering, the water almost to their feet; they were bitterly disappointed, but anyhow there was to-morrow, many “to-morrows.” All that evening they talked of nothing else. “It’s been there for thousands and tens of thousands of years! It will be there to-morrow,” they said. It was towards two o’clock in the morning that Hector, restless with excitement and fear, padded into his sister’s room; found her sleeping—stupidly sleeping—with the moonlight full upon her, and shook her awake; unreasonably angry, as wakeful people always are with the sleepers. “Suppose we never find it again! Oh, Rhoda, suppose we never find it again!” “Find what?” “The Forest, you idiot!—our Forest.” “Hector, don’t be silly. Go back to bed; you’ll get cold. Of course we’ll find it.” “Why of course? I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking. There wasn’t a tree or bush or landmark of any sort: we had pottered about all over the shop: supposing we’ve lost it for ever? Oh, supposing, Rhoda, Rhoda! What sillies we were! Why didn’t we stay there, camp opposite it until the tide went out? I feel it in my bones—we’ll never find it again—never—never—never! There might have been skulls, all sorts of things—long teeth—tigers’ teeth! And now we’ve lost it. It’s no good talking—we’ve lost it; I know we’ve lost it—after all these years! After thousands and thousands and thousands of years of remembering!” The boy’s forehead was glistening with sweat; the tears were running down his face, white as bone in the moonlight. Rhoda drew him into her bed, comforted him as best she could, very sleepy, and unperturbed—for, of course, they would find it. How could they help finding it? And after a while he fell asleep, still moaning and crying, searching for a lost path through his dreams. He was right in his foreboding. They did not find it. Perhaps the tide had been out further than usual: they had walked further than they thought; they had dreamt the whole thing; the light had deceived them—impossible to say. At first, in the broad light of day, even Hector was incredulous of their misfortune. Then, as the completeness of their loss grew upon them, they became desperate—possessed by that terrible restlessness of the searcher after lost things. Day after day they would come back from the sea worn out, utterly hopeless; declaring that here was the end of the whole thing; sick at the very thought of the secret mud, the long black shore. They gave it up. They would never go near “the rotten thing” again. Then, a few hours later, the thought of the freshly-receding tide began to work like madness in their veins, and they would be out and away. It was easier for Rhoda; for she was of those who “sleep o’ nights”; easier until she found that her brother slipped off on moonlight nights while she slumbered: coming back at all hours, haggard and worn to fainting-point. He stooped more than ever: his brow was more overhung, furrowed with horizontal lines. Sometimes, furious with herself for her sleepiness, Rhoda would awake, jump out of bed and run to the window in the fresh dawn, to see the boy dragging himself home, old as the ages, his hands hanging loose to his knees. At last the breaking-point came. He was very ill: after a long convalescence, money was collected from numerous relations, family treasures were sold, and he was sent away to school. He came back for his holidays a changed creature, talking of footer, then of cricket; of boys and masters; of school—school—school—nothing but school; blunt and practical. But all this was at the front of him, deliberately displayed in the shop-windows. At the back of him, buried out of sight, there was still the visionary rememberer. Rhoda, who loved him, realised this. At first she did not dare to speak of the Forest. Then, trying to get at something of the old Hector, she pressed the point; pressed it and pressed it. It was she now who kept on with that eternal, “Don’t you remember?” The worst of the whole thing was that he did not even pretend to forget. He did worse—he laughed. And in her own pain she now realised how often and how deeply she must have hurt him. “Oh, that rot! What silly idiots we were! Such rot!” And yet, at the back of him, at the back of his too-direct gaze, his laughter, there was something. Oh, yes, there was something. She was certain of that. Deep, deep, hidden away at the back of him, at the back of that most imperturbable of all reserves, a boy’s reserve, he remembered, felt as he had always felt. He shut her out of it, that was all: her—Rhoda. At the end of a year they ceased to talk of the Forest; all those far-back things dropped away from their intercourse. To outward seeming their love for the countryside, their strange, unyouthful interest in geology, the age-buried world, seemed a thing of the past. Hector had a bicycle now: he was often away for hours at a time. He never even spoke of where he had been, what he had been doing. It was always: “Nowhere in particular; nothing in particular.” Then, two years later, upon just such a breathless mid-summer day, he burst in upon his sister, his face crimson with excitement. “I’ve found it! I never gave up—never for a moment! I pretended—I thought you thought it rot—were drawing me on—but it’s there. We were right. It’s there—there! Quick! quick! Now the tide’s just almost full out.... Oh, by Jingo! to think I’ve found it! Rhoda, hurry up—quick!” He was dancing with impatience. “I can ride the bike—you on the step,” breathed Rhoda, and snatched up a hat. They flew. The village shot past them: the flat country swirled like a top. At last they came to a place where there was a tiny rag of torn handkerchief tied to a stick stuck upright in the ground. Here they left the road, laid the bicycle in a dry ditch, and cut away across the marsh; guided by more signals—scraps of cambric, then paper; towards the end, one every ten yards or less, until Rhoda wondered how in the world had the boy curbed himself to such care! Then—there it was. They stepped it: just on fifty yards long, indefinitely wide, running out into little bays, here and there tailing off so that it was impossible to discover any definite edge, sinking away out of sight like a dream. The sun was blazing hot and the top of the mud dry. In places they went down upon their hands and knees, peering; but really one saw most standing a little way off, with one’s head bent, eyeing it sideways. It was in this way that Rhoda found It—Him! “Look—look! Oh, I say—there’s something.... A thing—an animal! No—no—a—a——” “Sabre-toothed tiger!” The boy’s wild shriek of triumph showed how he had hugged that old conjecture. He came running, but until he got his head at exactly the same slant as hers he could see nothing, and was furiously petulant. “Idiot! Silly fool!—nothing but a bough. You——” A lucky angle, and, “Oh, I say, by Jove! I’ve got it now! A man—a man!” “A monkey—a great ape; there were no men, then, with ‘It.’” There, it seemed, she conceded him his tiger. “A little nearer—now again, there!” They crept towards it. It was clear enough at a little distance; but nearer, what with the blazing sun and the queer incandescent lights on the mud, they found difficulty in exactly placing it. At last they had it, found themselves immediately over it; were able, kneeling side by side, to gaze down at the strange, age-old figure, lying huddled together, face forward. It was not more than a couple of feet down; the semitransparent mud must have been silting over it for years and years: silted away again through centuries. And all for them—just for them. What a thought! Hector raced off for his bicycle, and so on to the nearest cottage to borrow a spade. The mental picture of the “man” and the sabre-toothed tiger met and clashed in his brain. If he was so certain of the man he must concede the tiger, given in to Rhoda and her later period. Unless—unless.... Suddenly he clapped his hands to his ears as though someone were shouting: his eyes closed, shutting out sight and sound. There was a tiger, he remembered—of course he remembered! And if he were there, others were there also—not one tiger, not one man, but tigers and men; both, both! By the time he got back to where he had left his sister, the water was above her knees, the tide racing inwards. They were not going to be done this time, however. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and their father was away from home. Rhoda went back and ordered the household with as much sobriety as possible; collected a supply of food and a couple of blankets—they had camped out before and there was nothing so very amazing in their behaviour—then returned to the shore, the shrine. Hector was sitting at the edge of the water, staring fixedly, white as a sheet. Rhoda collected driftwood and built a fire; almost fed him, for he took nothing but what was put into his hand. “It will still be there, even if we go to sleep,” she said; then, “Anyhow, we’ll watch turn and turn about.” But it was all of no use. The boy might lie down in his turn, but he still faced the sea with steady, staring eyes. Soon after three he woke his sister, shaking her in a frenzy of impatience. Oh, these sleepers! “Sleeping! Sleeping! You great stupid, you! I never! I.... Just look at the tide—only look!” The tide was pretty far out, the whole world a mist of pinkish-grey. Step by step they followed the retreating lap of water. By six o’clock they had the heavy body out, and were dragging it across the rapidly-drying mud. It was not as big as Hector: five-foot-one at the most, but almost incredibly heavy, with immense rounded shoulders. By the time they reached the true shore they were done, and flung themselves down, panting, exhausted. But they could not rest. A few minutes more and they were up again, turning the creature over, rubbing the mud away from the hairy body with bunches of grass; parting the long, matted locks which hung over its lowering face, with the overhung brow, flat nose, almost non-existent chin. The eyes were shut, but oddly unsunken: it smelt of marsh slime, of decayed vegetation, but nothing more. Hector poked forward a finger to see if he could push up one eyelid, and drew back sharply. “Why—hang it all—the thing’s warm!” “No wonder, with this sun. I’m dripping from head to foot. Hector, we must go home. Matty will tell; there’ll be the eyes of a row.” For all her insistence it was another hour before Rhoda could get her brother away. Again and again he met the returning tide with her hat, bringing it back full of water; washing their find from head to foot, combing its matted hair with a clipped fragment of driftwood. But at last they dragged it to a dry dyke, covered it with dry yellow grass, and were off, Rhoda on the step this time, Hector draped limply over the handle of the bicycle. He slept like a dead thing for the best part of that day. But soon after three they were away again: no use for Rhoda to raise objections; the unrest of an intense excitement was in her bones as in his, and he knew it. It had been a cloudless day, the veil of mist fainter than usual, the sky bluer. As they left the bicycle and cut across the rough foreshore the sun beat down upon them with an almost unbearable fierceness. There was a shimmer like a mirage across the marshes: the sea was the colour of burnt steel. They dog-trotted half the way, arguing as they ran; Hector, still fixed, pivoting upon his sabre-toothed tiger, and yet insistent that this was a man—a real man—contemporary with it: the first absolute proof of human existence anterior to the First Glacial age. “An ape—a sort of ape—nearish to a man, but—well, look at his hair.” She’d give him his tiger, but not his man. “By Gad, you’d grow hair, running wild as he did—a man——” “Hector, what rot! Why, anyone—anyone could see—” She thought of her father, the smooth curate, the rubicund farmers.... A man! “Well, stick to it—stick to it! But I bet you anything—anything....” Hector’s words were jerked out of him as he padded on: “We’ll get hundreds and hundreds of pounds for him! Travel—see the world—go to Java, where that other chap—what’s his name—was found. Why, he’s older than the Heidelberg Johnny—a thousand thousand times great-grandfather to that Pitcairn thing—older—older—oh, older than any!” Panting, stumbling, half-blind with exhaustion, the boy was still a good six yards in front of his sister as he reached the dry dyke where they had left their treasure. Rhoda saw him stand for a moment, staring, then spin round as though he had been shot, throwing up his arms with a hoarse scream. By the time she had her own arms about him, he could only point, trembling from head to foot. There was nothing there! Torn grass where they had pulled it to rub down their find; the very shape of the body distinct upon the sandy, sparsely-covered soil; the stick with the pennant of blue ribbon which Rhoda had taken from her hat to mark the spot.... Nothing more, nothing whatever. Up and down the girl ran, circling like a plover, her head bent. It must be somewhere, it must—it must! She glanced at her brother, who stood as though turned to stone: this was the sort of thing which sent people mad, killed them—to be so frightfully disappointed, and yet to stand still, to say nothing. She caught at his arm and faced him, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Oh, my dear, my dear—” she began, then broke off, staring beyond him. “Why ... why—Hector—I say—” Her voice broke to a whisper: she had a feeling as though she must be taking part in some mad dream. Quite inconsequently the thought of Balaam came to her. How did Balaam feel when the ass spoke to him? As she did—with eye more amazed than any ears could ever be. “Hector—look.... It—It....” As her brother still stood speechless, with bent head and ashen face, she dropped to silence: too terrified of It, of her plainly deluded self, of everything on earth, to say more.... One simply could not trust one’s own eyes; that’s what it came to. Her legs were trembling; she could feel her knees touching each other, cold and clammy. It would have been impossible to say a word, even if she had dared to reveal her own insanity; she could only pluck the lapels of her brother’s coat, running her dry tongue along her lips. Something in her unusual silence must have stirred through the boy’s own misery, for after a moment or so he looked up, at first dimly, as though scarcely recognising her. Then—slowly realising her intent glance fixed on something beyond his own shoulder, he turned—and saw. Twenty yards or more off, on a mound of coarse grass and sand just above the high-tide mark, “It” was sitting, its long arms wound round its knees, staring out to sea. For a moment or so they hung, open-mouthed, wide-eyed. For the life of her, Rhoda could not have moved a step nearer. The creature’s heavy shoulders were rounded, its head thrust forward. Silhouetted against sea and sky, white in contrast to its darkness, it had the aloofness of incredible age; drawn apart, almost sanctified by its immeasurable remoteness, its detachment from all that meant life to the men and women of the twentieth century: the web of fancied necessities, trivial possessions, absorptions. “There was no sea—of course, there was no sea anywhere near here then!” The boy’s whisper opened an incalculable panorama of world-wide change. There had been no sea here then; no Bristol Channel, no Irish Sea. Valley and river, that was all! This alien being who had lived, and more than half-died, in this very spot, was gazing at something altogether strange: a vast, uneasy sheet of water with but one visible bank; no golden-brown lights, no shadows, no reflections: a strange, restless and indifferent god. “Well—anyhow.... Oh, blazes! here goes! if—” Young Fane broke off with a decision that cut his doubts, and moved forward. In a moment the creature was alert, its head flung sideways and up, sniffing the air like a dog. It half turned, as though to run; then, as the boy stopped short, it paused. “Rhoda—get the grub—go quietly—don’t run.... Bread-and-butter—anything!” They had flung down the frail with the bottle of milk, cake, bread-and-butter that they had brought with them—enough for tea and supper—heedless in their despair. Rhoda moved a step or two away, picked up a packet, unfolded it and thrust the food into her brother’s hand—cake, a propitiation! The strange figure, upright—and yet not upright as it is counted in these days—remained stationary; there was one quick turn of the head following her, then the poise of it showed eyes immovably fixed upon the male. Hector moved forward very slowly, one smooth step after another. Rhoda had seen him like that with wild birds and rabbits. He wore an old suit of shrunken flannels, faded to a yellowish-grey, which blurred him into the landscape. Far enough off to catch his outline against the molten glare of the sea, she noted that his shoulders were almost as bent as those of that Other.... Other what?—man?—ape? The speculation zigzagged to and fro like lightning through her mind. She could scarcely breathe for anxiety. As the boy drew quite near to the dull, brownish figure it jerked its head uneasily aside—she knew what Hector’s eyes were like, a steady, luminous grey under the bent brows—made a swinging movement with its arms, half turned; then stopped, stared sideways, crouching, sniffing. The boy’s arm was held out at its fullest stretch in front of him. Heaven—the old, old gods—only knew upon what beast-torn carrion the creature had once fed; but it was famished, and some instinct must have told it that here was food, for it snatched and crammed its mouth. Hector turned and Rhoda’s heart was in her throat, for there was no knowing what it might not do at that. But as he moved steadily away, without so much as a glance behind him, it hesitated, threw up its hand, as though to strike or throw; then followed. That was the beginning of it. During those first days it would have followed him to the end of the world. Later on, he told himself bitterly that he had been a fool not to have seen further; gone off anywhere—oh, anywhere, so long as it was far enough—dragging the brute after him while his leadership still held. It was with difficulty that they prevented it from dogging them back to the Rectory—just imagine it tailing through the village at their heels! But once it understood that it must stay where it was, it sat down on a grassy hummock, crouching with its arms round its knees, one hand tightly clenched, its small, light eyes, overhung by that portentous brow, following them with a look of desolate loneliness. Again and again the boy and girl glanced back, but it still sat there staring after them, immovable in the spot which Hector had indicated to it. They had left it all the food they had with them, and one of the blankets which they had been too hot to carry home that morning. As it plainly had not known what to do with the thing, Rhoda, overcome by a sort of motherliness, had thrown it over its shoulders. Thus it sat, shrouded like an Arab, its shaggy head cut like a giant burr against the pale primrose sky. “A beastly shame leaving it alone like that!” They both felt it; scarcely liked to meet each other’s eyes over it. And yet, pity it as they might, engrossed in it as they were, they couldn’t stay there with it after dark. No reason, no fear—just couldn’t! Why? Oh, well, for all its new-found life, it was as far away as any ghost. “Poor brute!” said Rhoda. “Poor chap!” Hector’s under-lip was thrust out, his look aggressive. But there was no argument; and when he treated her—“Don’t be silly; of course it’s not a man; any duffer could see that”—with contemptuous silence, Rhoda knew that he was absolutely fixed in his convictions. He proved it, too, next morning, leading the creature out into the half-dried mud and back again to where his sister sat, following his apparently aimless movements with puzzled eyes. “Now, look,” he crowed. “Just you look, Miss Blooming-Cocksure!” He was right. There was the mark of his own heavy nailed boot, and beside it the track of other feet; oddly-shaped enough, but with the weight distinctly thrown upon the heel and great-toe, as no beast save man has ever yet thrown it—that fine developed great-toe, the emblem of leadership. Hardly a trace of such pressure as the three greater apes show, all on the outer edge of the foot; not even flat and even as the baboon throws his. It was after this that—without another word said—Rhoda, meek for once, followed her brother’s example, and began to speak of the creature as “He.” They even gave him a name. They called him Hodge; only in fun, and yet with a feeling that here was one of the first of all countrymen: less learned, and yet in some way so much more observant, self-sufficing, than his machine-made successors. He could run at an almost incredible rate, bent as he was; climb any tree; out-throw either of them, doubling the distance. It was there that they got at the meaning of that closed fist; for at least three days he had never let go of his stone—his one weapon. “He didn’t trust us.” Rhoda was hurt, her vanity touched; and when they had seemed to be making such progress, too! “Not that—a sort of ingrained habit; the poor devil didn’t feel dressed without it,” protested Hector. “Of course he trusts us as much as a perfectly natural creature ever trusts anything or anybody.” The Rector had gone on a visit to their only relative, an old aunt, who was dying in as leisurely a fashion as she had lived, and was unable to leave her. A neighbouring curate took that next Sunday’s service. It had been a Monday when Hector found Hodge, and a very great deal can happen in that time. From the first it had seemed clear that nothing in the way of communicating with authorities, experts, could be done until their father was there to back them, adding his own testimony. It was no good just writing—Hector did, indeed, begin a letter to Sir Ray Lankester, but tore it up, appalled by his own formless, boyish handwriting. “He’d think we were just getting at him—a couple of silly kids,” was his reflection. He knew a lot for his age; was very certain of his own knowledge; felt no personal fear of this wild man of his. But ordinary grown-up people! That was altogether a different matter. And here he touched the primitive mistrust of all real youth for anything too completely finished and sophisticated. Of course, from the very beginning, there were all sorts of minor troubles with Matty over their continued thefts of food; difficulties in keeping the creature away from the house and village. But all that was nothing to what followed. The first dim, unformulated sense of fear began on the night when Hector, awakened by a loud rustling among the leaves of that one tree, discovered Hodge there, climbing along a bough which ended close against Rhoda’s window. Rhoda’s, not his—that was the queer part of it! The boy felt half huffed as he drove him off. But when he came again, some instinct, something far less plain than thought, began to worry him: something which seemed ludicrous, until it gathered and grew to a feeling of nausea so horrible that the cold sweat pricked out upon his breast and forehead. At the third visit the fear was more defined. But still.... That brute “smitten” with Rhoda! He tried to laugh it off. Anyhow, what did it matter? And yet.... Hang it all! there was something sickening about it all. It was impossible to sleep at night, listening, always listening. He was only thirteen. Of course he had heard other chaps talking, but he had no real idea of the fierce drive of physical desire. And yet it was plain enough that here was something “beastly” beyond all words. He told Rhoda to keep her window bolted, and when she protested against such “fugging,” touched on his own fears, tried, awkwardly enough, to explain without explaining. “I’m funky about Hodge—he’s taken to following us. He might get in—bag something.” “The darling!” cried Rhoda. “Look here, old chap. I really believe he’s fond of me; fonder of me than of you!” She persisted in putting it to the test next day; left “Hodge” sitting by her brother, and walked away. The creature moved his head uneasily from side to side, glanced at Hector, and his glance was full of hatred, malevolence; then, scrambling furtively to his feet, helping himself with his hands, one fist tight-closed, in the old fashion, he passed round the back of the boy, and followed her. For a minute or two Hector sat hunched together, staring doggedly out to sea. If Rhoda chose to make an ass of herself—well, let her. After all, what could the brute do? She was bigger than he was, had nothing on her worth stealing; nothing of any use to Hodge, anyhow, he told himself. Then, of a sudden, that half-formulated dread, that sick panic seized him afresh. He glanced round; both Hodge and his sister were out of sight, and he started to run with all his might, shouting. There was an answering cry from Rhoda, shriller than usual, with a note of panic in it. This gave him the direction; and, plunging off among a group of shallow sand-dunes, he found himself almost upon them. Rhoda was drawn up very straight, laughing nervously, her shoulders back, flushed to the eyes, while Hodge stood close in front of her, gabbling—they had tried him with their own words, but the oddly-angled jaw had seemed to cramp the tongue beyond hope of articulate speech—gabbling, gesticulating. “Oh, Hector!” The girl’s cry was full of relief as she swung sideways toward him; while Hodge, glancing round, saw him, raised his hand, and threw. The stone just grazed the boy’s cheek, drawing a spurt of blood; but this was enough for Rhoda, who forgot her own panic in a flame of indignation. The creature could not have understood a word of what she said: her denunciation, abuse, “the wigging” she gave him. But her look was enough, and he shrank aside, shamed as a beaten dog. They did not bid him good-night. They had taught him to shake hands; but now that he was in disgrace all that was over, and they turned aside with the set severity of youth: bent brows and straightened, hard mouths. Rhoda was the first to relent, half-way home, breaking their silence with a laugh: “Poor old Hodge! I don’t know why I was so scared—I must have got him rattled, or he’d never have thrown that stone. Why, it was always you he liked best, followed,” she added magnanimously. And yet she was puzzled, all on edge, as she had never been before. The look Hodge had cast at her brother was unmistakable; but why?—why? What had changed him? She never even thought of that passion common to man and beast, interwoven with all desire, hatred—the lees of love—jealousy. All that evening Hector scarcely spoke. He was not so much scared as gravely anxious in a man’s way. If that brute got him with a stone, what would happen to Rhoda? Even supposing that there had been anyone to consult, he could not, for the life of him, have put his fear into words. So much a man, he was yet too much a boy for that. Terrified of ridicule, incredulity, he hugged his secret, as that strange man-beast hugged his—the highest and lowest—the most primitive and the most cultured—forever uncommunicative; those in the midway the babblers. He was so firm in his insistence upon Rhoda changing her room that night that she gave way, without argument, overawed by his gravity, by an odd, chill sense of fear which hung about her. “I must have got a cold. I’ve a sort of feeling of a goose walking over my grave,” was what she said laughingly, half-shamefaced, accustomed as she was to attribute every feeling to some natural cause. That night, soon after midnight, the brute was back in the tree. Hector heard the rustling, then the spring and swish of a released bough. Before he lay down he had unbolted one of the long bars from the underneath part of his old-fashioned iron bedstead; and, now taking it in his hand, he ran to Rhoda’s room. The white-washed walls and ceiling were so flooded with moonlight that it was almost as light as day. Hodge was already in the room: the clothes were torn from the bed; the cupboard doors wide open; the whole place littered with feminine attire. He—It—the impersonal pronoun slid into its place in the boy’s mind, and no words of self-reproach or condemnation could have said more—stood at the foot of the empty bed, with something white—it might have been a chemise—in its hand, held up to its face. Hector could not catch its expression, but there was something inexpressibly bestial in the silhouette of its head, bent, sniffing; he could actually hear the whistling breath. He would have given anything if only it had stayed, fought it out then. But it belonged to a state too far away for that—defensive, at times aggressive, but forever running, hiding, slinking: a thrower from among thick boughs behind tree-trunks—and in a moment it was out of the window, bundling over the sill, so clumsy and yet so amazingly quick. He could hear the swing of a bough as it caught it. There was a loud rustle of leaves, and a stone hurtled in through the window; but that was all. Hector tidied the room, tossed the scattered garments into the bottom of the wardrobe, and re-made the bed in his awkward boy-fashion, moving mechanically, as if in a dream; his hands busied over his petty tasks, his mind engrossed with something so tremendous that he seemed to be two separate people, of which the one, the greater, revolved slowly and certainly in an unalterable orbit, quite apart from his old everyday life, from that Hector Fane whom he had always known, thought of, spoken of as “myself.” He went to his own room, put on his collar and coat—for he had lain down upon his bed without undressing, every nerve on edge—laced up his boots with meticulous care. He was no longer frightened or hurried; he knew exactly what he was going to do, and that alone hung him—moving slowly, surely—as upon a pivot. The moonlight was so clear that there was no need for a candle, flooding the stairway, the study with its shabby book-shelves. Easy enough to take the old shot-gun from the nails over the mantelshelf; only last holiday—years and years ago, while he was still a child—he had been allowed to use it for wild-duck shooting—and run his hand along the back of the writing-table drawer in search of those three or four cartridges which he had seen there a couple of days earlier. The cartridges in his pocket swung against his hip as he mounted his bicycle and rode away—guiding himself with one hand, the gun lying heavily along his left arm; it was like someone nudging, reminding. The scene was entirely familiar; but what was so strange in himself lent it an air of something new and uncanny. The winding road had a swing, drawing him with it; the mingled mist and moonlight were sentient, watchful, holding their breath. Once or twice he seemed to catch sight of a low, stooping figure amid the rough grass and rush-tufted hollows to the left of him; but he could not be sure until he reached the very shore, left his bicycle in the old place. Then a stone grazed his shoulder, and there was a blurred scurry of brown, from hummock to hummock, low as a hare to the ground. Once in the open he got a clear sight of Hodge. The far-away tide was on the flow, but there was still a good half-mile of mud, like lead in the silvery dawn. The man-beast bundled down the sandy strip of shore and out on to the mud: ungainly, stumbling; the boy behind it—“It.” Hector held to that: the pronoun was altogether reassuring now—something to hold to, hard as a bone in his brain. On the edge of the tide it tried to turn, double; then paused, fascinated, amazed: numb with fear of the strange level pipe pointing, oddly threatening, the first ray of sunlight running like an arrow of gold along the top of it. There was something utterly naïve and piteous in the misplaced creature’s gesture: the way in which it stood—long arms, short, bandy legs—moving its head uneasily from side to side; bewildered, yet fascinated. “Poor beggar!” muttered Hector. He could not have said why, but he was horribly sorry, ashamed, saddened. Years later he thought more clearly—“Poor beggar! After all, what did he want but life—more life—the complete life of any man—or animal, either, come to that!” As he pressed his finger to the trigger he saw the rough brown figure throw up its arms, leap high in the air, and drop. Something like a red-hot iron burnt up the back of his own neck; his head throbbed. After all, what did death matter when life was so rotten, so inexplicable? It wasn’t that, only—only.... Well, it was beastly to feel so tired, so altogether gone to pieces. With bent head he made his way, ploughing through the mud and sand, back to the shore; sat down rather suddenly, with a feeling as though the ground had risen up to meet him, and winding his arms round his knees, stared out to sea; washed through and through, swept by an immense sense of grief, a desperate regret which had nothing whatever to do with his immediate action—the death of Hodge. That was something which had to be gone through with; it wasn’t that—not exactly that.... But, oh, the futility, the waste of ... well, of everything! “Rotten luck!” He shuddered as he dragged himself wearily to his feet. He could not have gone before, not while there was the mud with “that” on it; not even so long as the shining sands were bare. It would have seemed too hurried, almost indecent. But now that an unbroken, glittering sheet of water lapped the very edge of the shore, the funeral ceremony—with all its pomp of sunrise—was over; and, turning aside, he stumbled wearily through the rough grass to the place where he had left his bicycle.

Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS - https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/51241/pg51241-images.html

 He knew the city was organized for his
individual defense, for it had been that
way since he was born. But who was his enemy?

In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate was known as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was known as smog. By 2349, it was fog again.

But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it. Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.