The Bright Messenger

by Algernon Blackwood

  CHAPTER XIX

  While the Prometheans thus, individually and collectively fermenting,floundered between old and new interpretations of a strange occurrence,in another part of London something was happening, of its kind soreal, so interesting, that one and all would eagerly have renounced afavourite shibboleth or pet desire to witness it. Kempster would haveeaten a raw beefsteak, Lattimer have agreed to rebirth as a woman, Mrs.Towzer have swallowed whisky neat, and even Toogood have written asigned confession that his "psychometry," was intelligent guesswork.

  It is the destiny, however, of such students of the wonderful toreceive their data invariably at second or third hand; the data maydeal with genuine occurrences, but the student seems never himselfpresent at the time. From books, from reports, from accounts of someonewho knew an actual witness, the student generally receives the versionhe then proceeds to study and elaborate.

  In this particular instance, moreover, no version ever reached theirears at all, either at second or third hand, because the only witnessof what happened was Edward Fillery, and he mentioned it to no one. Itsreality, its interpretation likewise, remained authoritative only forthat expert, if unstable, mind that experienced the one and divined theother.

  His conversation with Devonham over, and the latter having retired tohis room, Fillery paid a last visit to the patient who was now hisprivate care, instead of merely an inmate of the institution that washalf a Home and half a Spiritual Clinique. The figure lay sleepingquietly, the lean, muscular body bare to the wind that blew upon itfrom the open window. Graceful, motionless, both pillow and coveringsrejected, "N. H." breathed the calm, regular breath of deepest slumber.The light from the door just touched the face and folded hands, thefeatures wore no expression of any kind, the hair, drawn back from theforehead and temples, almost seemed to shine.

  Through the window came the rustle of the tossing branches, but thenight air, though damp, was neither raw nor biting, and Fillery did notreplace the sheets upon the great sleeping body. He withdrew as softlyas he entered. Knowing he would not close an eye that night, he leftthe house silently and walked out into the deserted streets....

  The rain had ceased, but the wet wind rushed in gusts against him, thesoft blows and heavy moisture acting as balm to his somewhat tirednerves. As with great elemental hands, the windy darkness stroked him,soothing away the intense excitement he had felt, muting a thousandeager questions. They stroked his brain into a gentler silencegradually. "Don't think, don't think," night whispered all about him,"but feel, feel, feel. What you want to know will come to you byfeeling now." He obeyed instinctively. Down the long, empty streets hepassed, swinging his stick, tapping the lampposts, noting how steadytheir light held in the wind, noting the tossing trees in littlegardens, noting occasionally rifts of moonlight between the racingclouds, but relinquishing all attempt to think.

  He counted the steps between the lamp-posts as he swung along, leavingthe kerb at each crossing with his left foot, taking the new one withhis right, planting each boot safely in the centre of each pavingstone, establishing, in a word, a sort of rhythm as he moved. Hedid so, however, without being consciously aware of it. He was notaware, indeed, of anything but that he swung along with this pleasantrhythmical stride that rested his body, though the exercise wasvigorous.

  And the night laid her deep peace upon him as he went....

  The streets grew narrower, twisted, turned and ran uphill; the housesbecame larger, spaced farther apart, less numerous, their gardensbigger, with groups of trees instead of isolated specimens. He emergedsuddenly upon the open heath, tasting a newer, sweeter air. The hugecity lay below him now, but the rough, shouting wind drowned itsdistant roar completely. For a time he stood and watched its twinklinglights across the vapours that hung between, then turned towards thelittle pond. He knew it well. Its waves flew dancing happily. Thefamiliar outline of Jack Straw's Castle loomed beyond. The squareenclosure of the anti-aircraft gun rattled with a metallic sound in thewind....

  He had been walking for the best part of two hours now, thinkingnothing but feeling only, and his surface-consciousness, perhaps, laystill, inactive. The mind was quiescent certainly, his being subduedand lulled by the rhythmic movement which had gained upon his entiresystem. The sails of his ship hung idly, becalmed above the profounddeeps below. It was these deeps, the mysterious and inexhaustibleregion below the surface, that now began to stir. There stole upon hima dim prophetic sense as of horizons lifting and letting in new light.He glanced about him. The moon was brighter certainly, the flying scudwas thinning, though the dawn was still some hours away. But it was notthe light of moon or sun or stars he looked for; it was no outer light.

  The little waves fell splashing at his feet. He watched them for a longtime, keeping very still; his heart, his mind, his nerves, his muscles,all were very still.... He became aware that new big powers were alertand close, hovering above the world, feathering the Race like wings ofmighty birds. The waters were being troubled....

  He turned and walked slowly, but ever with the same pleasant rhythmthat was in him, to the pine trees, where he paused a minute, listeningto the branches shaking and singing, then retraced his steps along theridge, every yard of which, though blurred in darkness, he knew andrecognized. Below, on his left lay London, on his right stretched thefamiliar country, though now invisible, past Hendon with its WelshHarp, Wembley, and on towards Harrow, whose church steeple would catchthe sunrise before very long. He reached the little pond again andheard its small waves rushing and tumbling in the south-west wind. Hestood and watched them, listening to their musical wash and gurgle.

  The waters, yes, were being troubled.... Despite the buffeting wind,the world lay even stiller now about him; no single human being had heseen; even stiller than before, too, lay heart and mind within him;the latter held no single picture. He was aware, yes, of horizonslifting, of great powers alert and close; the interior light increased.He felt, but he did not think. Into the empty chamber of his being,swept and garnished, flashed suddenly, then, as in picture form, thememory of "N. H." All that he knew about him came at once: Paul'snotes and journey, the London scenes and talks, his own observations,deductions, questionings, his dreams, and fears and yearnings, his hopeand wonder--all came in a clapping instant, complete and simultaneous.Into his opened subconscious being floated the power and the presenceof that bright messenger who brought glad tidings to his life.

  "N. H." stood beside him, whispering with lips that were the darkness,and with words that were the wind. It was the power and presenceof "N. H." that lifted the horizon and let in light. His body laysleeping miles away in that bed against an open window. This was hisreal presence. Without words, as without thought, understanding came.The appeal of "N. H." was direct to the subliminal mind; it was thehidden nine-tenths he stimulated; hence came the intensification ofconsciousness in all who had to do with him. And it operated now.Fillery was aware of defying time and space, as though there were nolimits to his being. Faith lights fires.... Perception wandered downthose dusky by-ways _behind_ the mind that lead through tracklessdepths where the massed heritage of the world-soul, lit sometimes by aflashing light, reveal incredible, incalculable things. One of thoseflashes came now. Through the fissures, as it were, of his unstablebeing rose the marvellous, uncanny gleam. His eyes were opened and hesaw.

  The label, he realized, was incorrect, inadequate--"N. H." was amisnomer; more than human, both different to and greater than, camenearer to the truth. A being from other conditions certainly, belongingto another order; an order whose work was unremitting service renderedwith joy and faithfulness; a hierarchy whose service included theentire universe, the stars and suns and nebulae, earth with her frailhumanity but an insignificant fraction of it all....

  He came, of course, from that central sea of energy whence all life,pushing irresistibly outwards into form, first arises. Like humanbeings, he came thence undoubtedly, but more directly than they, inmore intimate relations, therefore, with the elementa
l powers thatbuild up form and shape the destinies of matter. One only of a mightyhost of varying degrees and powers, his services lay interwoven withthe very heart and processes of Nature herself. The energies of heatand air, essentials of all life everywhere, were his handmaidens; heworked with fire and wind; in the forms he helped to build he setenthusiasm and energy aglow....

  From stars and fire-mist he came now into humanity, using the limitedinstrument of a human mechanism, a mechanism he must learn to masterwithout breaking it. A human brain and nerves confined him. He coulddeal with essences only, those essential, buried, semi-elementalpowers that lie ever waiting below the threshold of all humanconsciousness, linking men, did they but know it, direct with the seaof universal life which is inexhaustible, independent of space andtime. The fraction of his nature which had manifested as a transientsurface-personality--LeVallon--was gone for ever, merged in the realself below.

  His origin was already forgotten; no memory of it lay in his presentbrain; he must suffer training, education, and he turned instinctivelyto those whose ideal, like his own, was one of impersonal service. Toa woman he turned, and to a man. His recognition, guided by Nature,was sure and accurate. It must take time and patience, sympathy andlove, faith, belief and trust, and the labour must be borne by oneman chiefly--by Fillery, into whose life had come this strange brightmessenger carrying glad tidings ... to prove at last that man wasgreater than he knew, that the hope for Humanity, for the deterioratingRace, for crumbling Civilization, lay in drawing out into fullpractical consciousness the divine powers concealed below the thresholdof every single man and woman....

  But how, in what practical manner, what instrument could they use?The human mechanism, the brain, the mind, afforded inadequate meansof manifestation; new wines into old skins meant disaster; knowledge,power beyond the experience of the Race needed a better instrument thanthe one the Race had painfully evolved for present uses. New powersof unknown kinds, as already in those rare cases when the supernormalforces emerged, could only strain the machinery and cause disorder. Anew order of consciousness required another, a different equipment.And the idea flashed into him, as in the Studio when he watched "N.H." and the girl--Father Collins had divined its possibility aswell--the idea of a group consciousness, a collective group-soul.What a single individual might not be able to resist at first withoutdisaster, many--a group in harmony--two or three gathered together inunison--these might provide the way, the means, the instrument--thebody.

  "The personal merged in the impersonal," he exclaimed to the nightabout him, already aware that words, expression, failed even at thisearly stage of understanding. "Beauty, Art! Where words, form, colourend, we shall construct, while yet using these as far as they go, a newvehicle, a new----"

  "Good evenin'," said a gruff voice. "Good evenin', sir," it added morerespectfully, after a second's inspection. "Turned out quite fine afterthe storm."

  Aware of the policeman suddenly, Fillery started and turned roundabruptly. Evidently he had uttered his thoughts aloud, probably hadcried and shouted them. He could think of nothing in the world to say.

  "It was a terrible storm. I hardly ever see the likes of it." The manwas looking at him still with doubtful curiosity.

  "Extraordinary, yes." Dr. Fillery managed to find a few natural words.It was an early hour in the morning to be out, and his position by thepond, he now realized, might have suggested an undesirable intention."It made sleep impossible, and I came out to--to take a walk. I'm adoctor, Dr. Fillery--the Fillery Home."

  "Yes, sir," said the man, apparently satisfied. He looked at the sky."All blown away again," he remarked, "and the moon that nice andbright----"

  Fillery offered something in reply, then moved away. The moon, henoticed, was indeed nice and bright now; the heavy lower vapours allhad vanished, and thin cirrus clouds at a great height moved slowlybefore an upper wind; the stars shone clearly, and a faint line ofcolour gave a hint of dawn not far away.

  He glanced at his watch. It was nearly half-past four.

  "It's impossible, impossible," he thought to himself, the pictureshe had been seeing still hanging before his eyes. "It was allfeeling--merely feeling. My blood, my heritage asserting themselvesupon an over-tired system! Too much repression evidently. I must findan outlet. My Caucasian Valley again!"

  He walked rapidly. His mind began to work, and thinking madean effort to replace feeling. He watched himself. His everydaysurface-consciousness partially resumed its sway. The policeman, ofcourse, had interrupted the flow and inrush of another state just atthe moment when a flash of direct knowledge was about to blaze. Itconcerned "N. H.," his new patient. In another moment he would haveknown exactly what and who he was, whence he came, the purpose and thepowers that attended him. The policeman--and inner laughter ran throughhim at this juxtaposition of the practical and the transcendental--hadinterfered with an interesting expansion of his being. An extensionof consciousness, perhaps a touch of cosmic consciousness, was on theway. The first faint quiver of its coming, magical with wondrous joy,had touched him. Its cause, its origin, he knew not, yet he could traceboth to the effect produced upon him by "N. H." Of that he was sure.This effect his reasoning mind, with busy analysis and criticism,had hitherto partially suppressed, even at its first manifestationin Charing Cross Station. To-night, criticism silent and analysisinactive, it had found an outlet, his own deep inner stillness had beenits opportunity. Then came the practical, honest, simple policeman,the censor, who received so much a week to keep people in the way theyought to follow, the safe, broad way....

  He smiled, as he walked rapidly along the deserted streets. He knew sowell the method and process of these abnormal states in others. As heswung along, not tired now, but rested, rather, and invigorated, therhythm of motion established itself again. "N. H." a Nature Spirit! ANature Being! Another order of life entering humanity for the firsttime, that humanity for whose welfare it--or was it he?--had worked,with hosts of similar beings, during incalculable ages....

  He smiled, remembering the policeman again. There was always apoliceman, or a censor. Oh, the exits beyond safe normal states ofbeing, the exits into extended fields of consciousness, into an outerlife which the majority, led by the best minds of the day, deny with anoath--these were well guarded! His smile, as he thought of it, ran fromhis lips and settled in the eyes, lingering a moment there before itdied away....

  How quiet, yet unfamiliar, the suburb of the huge city lay about himin pale half-light. The Studio scene, how distant it seemed now inspace and time; it had happened weeks ago in another city somewhere.Devonham, his cautious, experienced assistant, how far away! Hebelonged to another age. The Prometheans were part of a dream inchildhood, a dream of pantomime or harlequinade whose extravaganceyet conveyed symbolic meaning. Two figures alone retained a realitythat refused to be dismissed--a mysterious, enigmatic youth, a radiantgirl--with perhaps a third--a broken priest....

  The rhythm, meanwhile, gained upon him, and, as it did so, thinkingonce more withdrew and feeling stole back softly. His being became moreharmonized, more one with itself, more open to inspiration.... "N. H.,"whose work was service, service everywhere, not merely in that tinycorner of the universe called Humanity.... "N. H.," who could neitherage nor die.... What was the hidden link that bound them? Had they notserved and played together in some lost Caucasian valley, leaped withthe sun's hot fire, flown in the winds of dawn ... sung, laughed anddanced at their service, with a radiant sylph-like girl who had atlast enticed them into the confinement of a limited human form?... Didnot that valley symbolize, indeed, another state of existence, anotherorder of consciousness altogether that lay beyond any known presentexperience or description...?

  The dawn, meanwhile, grew nearer and a pallid light ran down thedreadful streets.... He reached at length the foot of the hill uponwhose shoulder his own house stood. The familiar sights stirred morefamiliar currents of feeling, and these in turn sought words....

  The crowding houses, with their tight-s
hut windows, followed andpressed after as he climbed. They swarmed behind him. How choked andairless it all was. He thought of the heavy-footed routine of thethousands who occupied these pretentious buildings. Here lived asection of the greatest city on the planet, almost a separate littletown, with marked characteristics, atmosphere, tastes and habits.How many, he wondered, behind those walls knew yearning, belief,imagination beyond the ruck and routine of familiar narrow thought?Rows upon rows, with their stunted, manufactured trees, hideousconservatories, bulging porches, ornamented windows--his wings beatagainst them all with the burning desire to set their inmates free.They caged themselves in deliberately. A few thousand years ago thesepeople lived in mud huts, before that in caves, before that again intrees. Now they were "civilized." They dwelt in these cages. Oh, thathe might tear away the thick dead bricks, and let in light and dew andstars, and the brave, free winds of heaven! Waken the deeper powersthey carried unwittingly about with them through all their tedioussufferings! Teach them that they were greater than they knew!

  The yearning was deep and true in him, as the houses followed andtried to bar his way. Many of the occupiers, he knew, would welcomehelp, would gaze with happy, astonished eyes at the wonder of theirown greater selves set free. Not all, of course, were wingless. Yetthe majority, he felt, were otherwise. They peered at him from behindthick curtains, hostile, sceptical, contented with their lot, averseto change. Mode, custom, habit chained them to the floor. He wasaware of a collective obstinate grin of smug complacency, of dullresistance. Though a part of the community, of the race, of the world,of the universe itself, they denied their mighty brotherhood, andclung tenaciously to their idea of living apart, cut off and separate.They belonged to leagues, societies, clubs and circles, but the biggeroneness of the race they did not know. Of greater powers in themselvesthey had no faintest inkling. At the first sign of these, they wouldshuffle, sneer and turn away, grow frightened even.

  The yearning to show them a bigger field of consciousness, to help themtowards a realization of their buried powers, to let them out of theirseparate cages, beat through his being with a passionate sincerity....In a hundred thousand years perhaps! Perhaps in a million! He knew theslow gait that Nature loved. The trend of an Age is not to be stemmedby one man, nor by twelve, who see over the horizon. The futility oftrying pained him. Yet, if no one ever tried! Oh, for a few swiftstrokes of awful sacrifice--then freedom!

  The words came back to him, and with them, from the same source, cameothers: "I sit and I weave.... I sit and I weave."... Whose, then, wasthis divine, eternal patience?...

  There could be, it seemed, no hurried growth, no instant escape, nosudden leap to heaven. Slowly, slowly, the Ages turned the wheel. "Norcan other beings help," he remembered; "they can only tell what theirown part is."... And as his clear mind saw the present Civilizationlike all its wonderful predecessors, tottering before his very eyes,threatening in its collapse, the extinction of knowledge so slowly,painfully, laboriously acquired, the deep heart in him rose as on wingsof wind and fire, questing the stars above. There was this strangeclash in him, as though two great divisions in his being struggled. Away of escape seemed just within his reach, only a little beyond thehorizon of his actual knowledge. It fluttered marvellously; golden,alight, inviting. Its coming glory brushed his insight. It was simple,it was divine. There seemed a faint knocking against the doors of hismental and spiritual understanding....

  "'N. H.'!" he cried, "Bright Messenger!"

  He paused a moment and stood still. A new sound lay suddenly in thenight. It came, apparently, from far away, almost from the air abovehim. He listened. No, after all it was only steps. They came nearer.A pedestrian, muffled to the ears, went past, and the steps died awayon the resounding pavement round the corner. Yet the sound continued,and was not the echo of the steps just gone. It was, moreover, he nowfelt convinced, in the air above him. It was continuous. It remindedhim of the musical droning hum that a big bell leaves behind it, whilea suggestion of rhythm, almost of melody, ran faintly through it too.

  Somebody's lines--was it Shelley's?--ran faintly in his mind, yet itwas not his mind now that surged and rose to the new great rhythm:

  "'Tis the deep music of the rolling world Kindling within the strings of the waved air Aeolian modulations.... Clear, icy, keen awakening tones That pierce the sense And live within the soul...."

  He listened. It was a simple, natural, happy sound--simple as runningwater, natural as wind, happy as the song of birds....