“I believe they want me to look at something or other,” the boy thought vaguely. It seemed as if he had picked them out of a dream and put them there upon the lawn. He felt dazed and happy; he had been dreaming of curious wild things. Where was he? What had happened? “It feels just like something coming,” he decided, “or somebody. Some one’s about in the grounds, perhaps…!”
It was very exciting to be awake at such an unearthly hour; the sun was still below the edge of the gigantic earth! A great, slow thrill stole up into his heart. He noticed the streaks of colour in the sky, and felt the chilly wind. “It’s sunrise!” he exclaimed, rubbing one naked foot against the other; “that’s what it is. And I’m up to see it!”
The thrill merged into a deep, huge sense of wonder that enthralled him. At the same moment the swallows, disturbed by his voice, looked up with one accord, then rose in a single sweep and whirled off into the upper air, wings faintly tinged with gold. They scattered. Tim watched them for a little while, dimly aware that he watched something “perfectly magnificent.” His eyes followed one bird after another, caught in a sudden little rapture he could not understand… then turned and saw his bed, flushed with early pink, across the room. With a running jump he landed among the sheets, rolled himself up into a ball, and promptly fell asleep again. It was not yet four o’clock.
Across the landing, meanwhile, Judy, wakened by a brush of feathery wind, was at her window too. She felt very sure of something, although she didn’t in the least know what. It was the same thing that Tim and Uncle Felix knew, only they knew they didn’t know it, whereas she didn’t know she knew it. Her knowledge, therefore, was greater than theirs.
The room was touched with soft grey light; it was to the west, and the night still clung about the furniture. Like a ball in a saucer, Maria lay asleep in bed against the opposite wall, her neutrality to all that was going on absolute as usual. But Judy did not wake her, she preferred to live alone; she knew that she was alive in her night-gown between night and morning, and that was an unusual pleasure she wished to enjoy without interference. For months she had not waked before half-past seven. The excitement of the unfamiliar was in her heart. She had caught the earth asleep — surprised it. For the first time in her life she saw “the Earth.” She discovered it.
She knelt on a chair beside the open window, peering out, and as she did so, a strange, wild cry came sounding through the stillness. It was like a bugle-call, but she knew no human lips had made it. She glanced quickly in the direction whence it came — the pond — and the next instant the reeds about the edge parted and the thing that had emitted the curious wild cry emerged plainly into view. It was a pompous-looking creature. It came out waddling.
“It’s the up-and-under bird,” exclaimed Judy in a whisper. “Something’s happening!”
It was a water-fowl, a creature whose mysterious habit of living upon the surface of the pond as well as underneath made the children’s nick-name a necessity. And now it was attempting a raid on land as well. But land was not its natural place. Something certainly had happened, or was going to happen.
“It’s a snopportunity,” decided Judy instantly. Far more than an opportunity, a snopportunity was something to be snapped up quickly, the sort of thing that ordinarily happened behind one’s back, usually discovered too late to be made use of. “I’ve caught it!” She remembered that the clocks had stopped, yet not knowing why she remembered it. It was the thing she didn’t know she knew. She knew it before it happened. That was a snopportunity.
She watched the heavy bird for a considerable time as it slowly appropriated the land it had no right to. It moved, she thought, like a twisted drum on very short drumsticks. It had a water-logged appearance. It was bird and fish ordinarily, but now it was pretending to be animal as well — a thing that flew, swam, walked. Its webbed feet patted the ground complacently. It came laboriously towards the wall of the house, then halted. It paused a moment, then turned its eyes up, while Judy turned hers down. The pair of creatures looked at one another steadily for several seconds.
“You’re not out for nothing,” exclaimed Judy audibly. “So now I know!”
The reply was neither in the affirmative nor in the negative. The up-and-under bird said nothing. It made no sign. It just turned away, stalked heavily back across the lawn without once looking either to right or left, launched itself upon the water, uttered its queer bugle-call for the last and second time, and promptly disappeared below. The tilt of its vanishing tail expressed sublime indifference to everything on land. And Judy, reflecting vaguely that she, too, was something of an up-and-under creature, followed its example, though without the same dispatch or neatness of execution. She tumbled sideways into bed and disappeared beneath the sheets, aware that the bird had left her richer than it found her. It had communicated something that lay beyond all possible explanation. She had no tail, nor did she express indifference. On the contrary, she hugged herself, making sounds of pleasurable anticipation in her throat that lay plunged among depths of soothing pillows.
It seems, then, that the entire household, the important portion of it, at any rate, had been duly notified that something unusual was afoot, and that the dawn of the day just breaking through a ghostly sky was distinctly out of the ordinary. The birds, always the first to wake, and provided with the most sensitive apparatus for recording changes, had caught the mysterious whisper from the fading night; they had instantly communicated it to the best of their ability to their established friends. The robin, the swallows, and the up-and-under bird, having accomplished their purpose, disappeared from view in order to attend to breakfast and the arrangement of their own subsequent adventures. Earth, air, and water had delivered messages. The news had been flashed. Those who deserved it had been warned. The day could now begin.
Maria, alone, meanwhile, slept on soundly, secure in that stodgy immobility that takes no risks. Oblivious, apparently, of all secret warnings of excitement or alarm, she lay in a tight round ball, inactive, undisturbed. Even her breathing revealed her peculiar idiosyncrasy: no actual movement on her surface was discernible. Her breathing involved the least possible disturbance of the pink and white contours that bulged the sheets and counterpane. Her face was calm, expressionless, and even dull, yet wore a certain look as though she knew so much that she had no need to maintain her position by the least assertion. Exertion would have been a denial of her right to exist. And exist she certainly did. The weight of her personality lent balance to the quivering uncertainty of this mysterious dawn. Maria remained an unassailable reality, an immovable centre round which anything might happen, yet never end, and certainly no disaster come. And Judy, glancing at her as she disappeared below her own sheets, noted this fact without understanding that she did so. This was another aspect of the thing she didn’t know she knew.
“Maria’s asleep,” she felt, “so there’s no need to get up yet. It’s all right!” In spite of the marvellous thing she knew was coming, that is, she felt herself anchored safely to the firm reality of calm Maria, soundly, peacefully asleep. And five minutes later she was in the same desirable condition herself.
But, hardly were they all asleep, than a figure none of them had noticed, yet all perhaps had vaguely felt, rose out of the little ditch this side of the laurel shrubberies, and advanced slowly towards the old Mill House. The shape was shadowy and indeterminate at first; it might have been a bush, a sheaf of straw, a clump of high-grown weeds, for birds fluttered just above it, and the swallows darted down without alarm. A shaggy thing, it seemed part of the natural landscape.
Half-way across the lawn, however, it paused and stretched itself; it rubbed its eyes; it yawned; and, as it shook the sleep from face and body, the outline grew distinctly clearer. The thing that had looked like a bundle of hay or branches resolved itself into a human being; the loose untidiness gave place to definite shape, as leaves, grass, twigs, and wisps of straw fell fluttering from it to the ground. It was a pathetic and yet wonderful
sight, beauty, happiness, and peace about it somewhere, together with a soft and tender sweetness that tempered the wildness of its aspect. Indescribably these qualities proclaimed themselves. It was a man.
“They’ve seen me twice,” he mentioned to the dipping swallows. “This is my third appearance. They’ll recognise me without a word. The Day has come.”
He stood a moment, shaking the extras of the night from hair and clothing, then laughed with a sound like running water as the birds swooped down and carried the straws and twigs away with a great business of wings. Next, glancing up at the open windows of the house, he started forward with a light but steady step. “They will not be surprised,” he said, “for they have always believed in me. They knew that some day I should come, and in the twinkling of an eye!” He paused and chuckled in his beard. “I’m not the one thing they’re expecting, but I’m next door to it, and I can show them how to look at any rate.”
And he began softly humming the words of a little song he had evidently made up himself, and therefore liked immensely. He neared the walls; the sunrise tipped a happy, glorious face; he disappeared from view as though he had melted through the old grey stone. And a flight of swallows, driven by the fresh dawn wind, passed high overhead across the heavens, leading the night away. They swung to the rhythm of his little song:
My secret’s in the wind and open sky,
There is no longer any Time — to lose;
The world is young with laughter; we can fly
Among the imprisoned hours as we choose.
The rushing minutes pause; an unused day
Breaks into dawn and cheats the tired sun;
The birds are singing. Hark! Come out and play!
There is no hurry! Life has just begun!
THE EXTRA DAY
BEHIND TIME
I
The day broke. It broke literally. The sky gave way and burst asunder, scattering floods of radiant sunshine. This was the feeling in Uncle Felix’s heart as he came downstairs to breakfast in the schoolroom. A sensation of feathery lightness was in him, of speed as well: he could rise above every obstacle in the world, only — there were no obstacles in the world to rise above. Boredom, despair, and pessimism, he suddenly realised, meant deficiency of energy merely. “Birds can rise above everything — and so can I!” — as though he possessed a robin’s normal temperature of 110 degrees!
Although it was Sunday morning, and a dark suit was his usual custom, he had slipped into flannels and a comfortable low collar, without thinking about it one way or the other. “It’s a jolly day,” he hummed to himself, “and I’m alive. We must do all kinds of things — everything! It’s all one thing really!” It seemed there was a new, uplifting sense of joy in merely being alive. He repeated the word again and again— “alive, alive, alive!” Of course a robin sang: it was the natural thing to do.
He looked out of the window while dressing, and caught the startling impression that this life emanated from the world of familiar trees and grass and flowers spread out before his eyes. Everything was singing. Beauty had dropped down upon the earth; the earth, moreover, knew that she was beautiful — she was obviously enjoying herself, both as a whole and in every tiniest nook and corner of her gigantic being. Yet without undue surprise he noted this; the marvel was there as always, but he did not pause to say, “How marvellous!” It was as natural as breathing, and as easily accepted. He was always breathing, but he never stopped and thought, “Good Lord, I’m breathing! How dreadful if it stopped!” He simply went on breathing. And so, with the beauty of this radiant morning, it never occurred to him “This will not last, the sun will set, the shadows fall, the marvel pass and die.” That this particular day could end did not even suggest itself.
On his way down the passage, Judy and Tim came dancing from their rooms to meet him. They, too, were dressed in their everyday-adventure things, no special sign of Sunday anywhere about them — slipped into their summery clothing as naturally as birds and flowers grow into the bright and feathery stuff that covers them. This notion struck him, but faintly; it was not a definite thought. He might as well have noticed, “Ah, the sky is dressed in light, or mist! The wind blows it into folds and creases!” Yet the notion did strike him with its little dream-like hammer, because with it came a second tiny blow, producing, it seemed, a soft blaze of light behind his eyes somewhere: “I’ve recovered the childhood sense of reality, the vivid certainty, the knowledge!… Somebody’s coming…. Somebody’s here — hiding still, perhaps, yet nearer…” It flashed like a gold-fish in some crystal summer fountain… and was gone again.
In the passage Judy touched his hand, and said confidingly, “You will take me to the end of the world to-day, Uncle.”
It was true and possible. No special preparation was required for any journey whatsoever. They were already prepared for anything — like birds. And some one, it seemed, had taken his name away!
“We’ll do everything at once,” said Tim, with the utmost assurance in tone and manner.
“Of course,” was his obvious and natural reply to each, no explanations or conditions necessary. Things would happen of themselves, spontaneously. There was only one thing to do! “We’re alive,” he added. They just looked at him as he said it, then pulled him down the passage a little faster than before. Yet the way they ran dancing along that oil-cloth passage held something of the joy and confidence with which birds launch themselves into flight across the earth. There was this sense of spontaneous excitement and delight about.
“He’s here already,” Judy whispered, as they neared the breakfast room.
“I can feel it.”
“Came in while we were asleep,” her brother added. “I know it,” and he clapped his hands.
“At dawn, yes,” agreed Uncle Felix, saying it on the spur of the moment. He was perplexed a little, perhaps, but did not hesitate. He had not quite the assurance of the others. He meant to let himself go, however.
There was not the slightest doubt or question anywhere; they believed because they knew; what they had expected for so long had happened. The Stranger in the Tea-cup had arrived at last. They went down the long corridor of the Old Mill House, every window open to the sunshine that came pouring in. The very walls seemed made of transparent, shining paper. The world came flowing in. A happiness of the glowing earth sang in their veins. At the door they paused a second.
“I know exactly who he is,” breathed Judy softly.
“I know what he looks like,” whispered Tim.
“There was never time to see him properly before,” said Uncle Felix.
“Things went by so fast. He whizzed and vanished. But now — of course-”
They pushed the door open and went in.
Breakfast was already laid upon the shining cloth; hot dishes steamed; there were flowers upon the table, and climbing roses peeped in round the grey walls of sun-baked stone. A bird or two hopped carelessly upon the window-sill, and a smell of earth and leaves was in the air. Sunshine, colour, and perfume filled the room to overflowing, yet not so full that there was not ample space for the “somebody” who had brought them. For somebody certainly was there — some one whom the children, moreover, took absolutely for granted.
There had been surprise outside the door, but there was none when they were in. Something like a dream, it seemed, this absence of astonishment, though, of course, no one took it in that way. For, at first, no one spoke at all. The children went to their places, lifting the covers to see what there was to eat. They did the normal, natural thing; eyed and sniffed the porridge, cream, brown sugar, and especially approved the dish of comfortable, fat poached eggs on toast. They were satisfied with what they saw; everything was as it ought to be — plentiful, available, on hand. There was enough for everybody.
But Uncle Felix paused a moment just inside the open door, and stared; he looked about him as though the incredible thing had really happened at last. A rapt expression passed over his face, and his eyes se
emed fixed upon something radiant that hung upon the air. He sighed, and caught his breath. His heart grew amazingly light within him. Every thought and feeling that made up his personality — so it felt, at least — had wings of silver tipped with golden fire.
“At last!” he murmured softly to himself, “at last!”
He moved forward slowly into the room, his eyes still fixed on vacancy. The face showed exquisite delight, but the lips were otherwise dumb. He looked as if he had caught a glimpse of something he could not utter.
“Porridge, please, Uncle,” he heard a voice saying, as some one put a large silver spoon into his hand. “I like the hard lumps.” And another voice added, “I like the soupy, slippery stuff, please.” He pulled himself together with an effort.
“Ah,” he mumbled, peeping from the dishes at the children’s faces, “the tea has stopped turning in the cup at last. He’s come up to the surface.”
And they turned and looked at him, but without the least surprise again; it was perfectly natural, it seemed, that there should be this Presence in the room; their Uncle’s remark was neither here nor there. He had a right to express his own ideas in his own way if he wanted to. Their own remarks outside the door they had apparently forgotten. That, indeed, was already a very long time ago now. In the full bliss of realisation, anticipation was naturally not remembered. The excitement in the passage belonged to some dim Yesterday — almost when they were little.
They began immediately to talk at the Stranger in the room.
“I didn’t hear anybody come,” remarked Tim, as he mixed cream and demerara sugar inside an artificial pool of porridge, “but it’s all the same — now. Our Somebody’s here all right.” And then, between gulps, he added, “The swallows laid an awful lot of eggs in the night, I think.”
Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood Page 277