Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  “And that,” laughed the Tramp, cocking his great head to catch the murmur of the stream beyond the lawn, “if the dust of furniture and houses ain’t blocked your ears too thickly.” They stooped to listen. “Like laughter, isn’t it?” he observed, “singing and laughing mixed together?”

  They straightened up again, too full of wonder to squeeze out any words.

  “It’s everywhere,” said Uncle Felix, “this calling — these calling voices. Is that where you got your song from?”

  “It’s everywhere and always,” replied the other evasively. “The birds get their singing from it. They get everything first, of course, then pass it on. The whole world’s music comes from that, though there’s nothing — nothing,” he added with emphasis, “to touch the singing of a bird. He’s calling everywhere and always,” he went on as no one contradicted him or ventured upon any question; “only you’ve got to listen close. He calls soft and beautiful. He doesn’t shout and yell at you.”

  “Soft and beautiful, yes,” repeated Uncle Felix below his breath, “the small, still voices of the air and sea and earth.” And, as he said it, they caught the murmur of the little stream; they heard singing in the air as well. The blackbirds whistled in one direction, the thrushes trilled and gurgled in another, and overhead, both among the covering leaves and from the open sky, a chorus of twittering and piping filled the chambers of the day. Judy recalled, as of long ago, the warning bugle-call of an up-and-under bird; Tim faintly remembered having overheard some swallows “discussing” together; Uncle Felix saw a robin perched against a sky of pearly grey at the end of an interminable corridor that stretched across whole centuries…. Then, close beside the three of them, a bumble-bee, a golden fly, and a company of summer gnats went by — booming, trumpeting, singing like a tiny carillon of bells respectively.

  “Hark and listen,” exclaimed the Tramp with triumph in his voice, and looking down at Tim particularly. “He’s calling all the time. It’s the little ordinary sounds that give the hints.”

  “It’s an enormous hide; I mean to look for ever and ever,” cried the delighted boy.

  “I can hear everything in the world now,” cried Judy.

  “Signs,” said Uncle Felix, after a pause. This time he did not make a question of his thought, but merely dropped the word out like a note of music into the air. His feather answered it and took it further.

  The Tramp caught the word flying before it reached the ground:

  “Deep, tender, kind and beautiful,” he said, “but above all — beautiful.” He turned his shaggy head and looked about him carelessly. “There’s one of them, for instance,” he added, pointing across the lawn. “There’s a sign. It means he’s passed that way! He ain’t too far away — may-be.”

  They followed the direction of his eyes. A dragon-fly paused hovering above the stream, its reflection mirrored in the clear running water underneath. Against the green palisade of reeds its veined and crystal wings scattered the sunlight into shining flakes. The blue upon its body burned — a patch of flaming beauty in mid-air. They watched it for a moment. Then, suddenly — it was gone, the spot was empty. But the speed, the poise, the perfect movement, the flashing wings, above all the flaming blue upon its tail still held them spellbound. Somehow, it seemed, they had borrowed that speed, that flashing beauty, making the loveliness part and parcel of themselves. Swiftly they turned and stared up at the Tramp. There was a rapt look upon his tangled face.

  “A sign,” he was saying softly. “He’s passed this way. He can’t be hiding very far from here.” And, drawing a long, deep breath, he gazed about him into endless space as though about to sing again.

  The dragon-fly had vanished, none knew whither, gone doubtless into some new hiding-place; it just gave the hint, then slipped away upon its business. But the wonder and the beauty it had brought remained behind, crept into every heart. The mystery of life, the reality that lay hiding at the core of things, the marvel and the dream — all these were growing clearer. All lovely things were “signs.” And there fell a sudden hush upon the group, for the Thing that Nobody could Understand crept up and touched them.

  Abruptly, then, lest the wonder of it should prove more than they could bear perhaps, a blackbird whistled with a burst of flying laughter at them from the shrubberies. Laughter and dancing both were part of wonder. The Tramp at once moved forward, chuckling in his beard; he waved his arms; his step was lighter, quicker; he was singing softly to himself: they only caught stray sentences, but they loved the windy ringing of his voice. They knew not where he borrowed words and tune: “The world is young with laughter; we can fly…. Among the imprisoned hours as we choose…. The birds are singing…. Hark! Come out and play…. There is no hurry…. Life has just begun….”

  “Come on!” cried Tim. “Let’s follow him; we’re getting frightfully warm!”

  He seized Judy and his uncle by the hands and cleared the rivulet with a running leap. The Tramp, however, preferred to wade across. “Get into everything you can,” he explained in mid-stream with a laugh. “It keeps you in touch; it’s all part of the looking.”

  He led them into the field where the blackbird still went on whistling its heart out into the endless summer morning. But to them it seemed that he led them out across the open world for ever and ever….

  It grew very marvellous, this game of hide and seek. Sometimes they forgot it was a game at all, forgot what they were looking for, forgot that they were looking for anything or any one at all. Yet the mighty search continued subconsciously, even when passing incidents drew their attention from their chief desire. Always, at the back of thought, lay this exquisite, sweet memory in their hearts, something they half remembered, half forgot, but very dear, very marvellous. Some one was hiding somewhere, waiting, longing to play with them, expecting to be found.

  It may be that intervals went by, those intervals called years and months; yet no one noticed them, and certainly no one named them. They knew one feeling only — the joy of endless search. Some one was hiding, some one was near, and signs lay scattered everywhere. This some one lay in his wonderful hiding-place and watched their search with laughter in his eyes. He remained invisible; perhaps they would never see him actually; but they felt his presence everywhere, in every object, every tree and flower and stone, in sun and wind, in water and in earth. The power and loveliness of common things became insistent. They were aware of them. It seemed they brushed against this shining presence, pushing for ever against a secret door of exit that led into the final hiding-place. Eager to play with them, yet more eager still to be discovered, the wonderful hider kept just beyond their sight and touch, while covering the playground with endless signs that he was near enough for them to know for certain he was — there. For among the four of them there was no heart that doubted. None explained. None said No…. Nor was there any hurry.

  “I believe,” announced Tim at length, with the air of a sage about him, “the best way is to sit still and wait; then he’ll just come out like a rabbit and show himself.” And, as no one contradicted, he added confidently, “that’s my idea.” His love was evidently among the things of the soil, rabbits, rats and hedgehogs, both hunter and adventurer strong in him.

  “A hole!” cried Judy with indignation. “Never! He’s in the air. I heard a bird just now that—”

  “Whew!” whistled Uncle Felix, interrupting her excitedly. “He’s been along here. Look! I’m sure of it.” And he said it with such conviction that they ran up, expecting actual footprints.

  “How do you know?” Tim asked dubiously, seeing no immediate proof himself. All paused for the reply; but Uncle Felix also paused. He had said a thing it seemed he could not justify.

  “Don’t hesitate,” said the Tramp, watching him with amusement. “Don’t think before you speak. There’s nothing to think about until you’ve spoken.”

  Uncle Felix wore an expression of bewilderment. “I meant the flowers,” he stammered, still unsure of his new power
s.

  “Of course,” the other chuckled. “Didn’t I tell you ‘tender and beautiful,’ and ‘bang out in the open’?”

  “Then you’re right, Uncle; they are signs,” cried Judy, “and you do like butter,” and she danced away to pick the dandelions that smothered the field with gold. But the Tramp held out his feather like a wand.

  “They’re our best signs, remember,” he cried. “You might as well pick a feather out of a living bird.”

  “Oh!” — and she pulled herself up sharply, a little flush running across her face and the wind catching at her flying hair. She swayed a moment, nearly overbalancing owing to the interrupted movement, and looking for all the world like a wild young rose tree, her eyes two shining blossoms in the air. Then she dropped down and buried her nose among the crowd of yellow flowers. She smelt them audibly, drawing her breath in and letting it out again as though she could almost taste and eat the perfume.

  “That’s better,” said the Tramp approvingly. “Smell, then follow,” and he moved forward again with his dancing, happy step. “All the wild, natural things do it,” he cried, looking back over his shoulder at the three who were on their knees with faces pressed down against the yellow carpet. “It’s the way to keep on the trail. Smell — then follow.”

  Something flashed through the clearing mind of the older man, though where it came from he had less idea than the dandelions: a mood of forgotten beauty rushed upon him —

  ”O, follow, follow!

  Through the caverns hollow,

  As the song floats thou pursue,

  Where the wild bee never flew—”

  and he ran dancing forward after the great Tramp, singing the words as though they were his own.

  Yet the flowers spread so thickly that the trail soon lost itself; it seemed like a paper-chase where the hare had scattered coloured petals instead of torn white copy-books. Each searcher followed the sign of his or her own favourite flower; like a Jack-in-the-Box each one bobbed up and down, smelling, panting, darting hither and thither as in the mazes of some gnat — or animal-dance, till knees and hands were stained with sweet brown earth, and lips and noses gleamed with the dust of orange-tinted pollen.

  “Anyhow, I’d rather look than find,” cried Tim, turning a somersault over a sandy rabbit-mound.

  The swallows flashed towards Judy, a twittering song sprinkling itself like liquid silver behind them as they swooped away again.

  “I expect,” the girl confessed breathlessly, “that when we do find him — we shall just die — !”

  “Of happiness, and wonder,” ventured Uncle Felix, watching a common Meadow Brown that perched, opening and closing its wings, upon his sleeve. And the Tramp, almost invisible among high standing grass and thistles, laughed and called in his curious, singing voice, “There is no hurry! Life has just begun!”

  “Then we might as well sit down,” suggested Uncle Felix, and suiting the action to the word, chose a nice soft spot upon the mossy bank and made himself comfortable as though he meant to stay; the Tramp did likewise, gathering the children close about his tangled figure. For one thing a big ditch faced them, its opposite bank overgrown with bramble bushes, and for another the sloping moss offered itself invitingly, like a cushioned sofa. So they lay side by side, watching the empty ditch, listening to the faint trickle of water tinkling down it. Slender reeds and tall straight grasses fringed the nearer edge, and, as the wind passed through them with a hush and whisper, they bent over in a wave of flowing green.

  “He’s certainly gone that way,” Judy whispered, following with her eyes the direction of the bending reeds. She was getting expert now.

  “Along the ditch, I do believe,” agreed Tim. There were no flowers in it, and few, perhaps, would have found beauty there, yet the pointing of the reeds was unmistakable. “It’s chock full of stuff,” he added, “but a rat could get along, so I suppose—”

  “The signs are very slight sometimes,” murmured the Tramp, his head half buried in the moss, “and sometimes difficult as well. You’d be surprised.” He flung out his arms and legs and continued laughingly. “When things are contrary you may be sure you’re getting somewhere — getting warm, that is.”

  The children heard this outburst, but they did not listen. They were absorbed in something else already, for the movements of the reeds were fascinating. They began to imitate them, swaying their heads and bodies to and fro in time, and crooning to themselves in an attempt to copy the sound made by the wind among the crowded stalks.

  “Don’t,” objected Uncle Felix, half in fun, “it makes me dizzy.” He was tempted to copy them, however, and made an effort, but the movement caught him in the ribs a little. His body, like his mind, was not as supple as theirs. An oak tree or an elm, perhaps, was more his model.

  “Do,” the Tramp corrected him, swaying as he said it. “Swing with a thing if you want to understand it. Copy it, and you catch its meaning. That’s rhythm!” He made an astonishing mouthful of the word. The children overheard it.

  “How do you spell it?” Judy asked.

  “I don’t,” he replied; “I do it. Once you get into the” — he took a great breath— “rhythm of a thing, you begin to like it. See?”

  And he went on swaying his big shoulders in imitation of the rustling reeds. All four swayed together then, holding their feathers before them like little flying banners. More than ever, they seemed things growing out of the earth, out of the very ditch. The movement brought a delicious, soothing sense of peace and safety over them; earth, air, and sunshine all belonged to them, plenty for everybody, no need to get there first and snatch at the best places. There was no hurry, life had just begun. They seemed to have dug a hole in space and curled up cosily inside it. They whispered curious natural things to one another. “A wren is settling on my hair,” said Judy: “a butterfly on my neck,” said Uncle Felix: “a mouse,” Tim mentioned, “is making its nest in my trousers pocket.” And the Tramp kept murmuring in his voice of wind and water, “I’m full of air and sunlight, floating in them, floating away… my secret’s in the wind and open sky… there is no longer any Time — to lose….”

  A bright green lizard darted up the sun-baked bank, vanishing down a crack without a sound; it left a streak of fire in the air. A golden fly hovered about the tallest reed, then darted into another world, invisibly. A second followed it, a third, a fourth — points of gold that pinned the day fast against the moving wall of green. A wren shot at full speed along the bed of the ditch, threading its winding length together as upon a woven pattern. All were busy and intent upon some purpose common to the whole of them, and to everything else as well; even the things that did not move were doing something.

  “I say,” cried Tim suddenly, “they’re covering him up. They’re hiding him better so that we shan’t find him. We’ve got too warm.”

  How long they had been in that ditch when the boy exclaimed no one could tell; perhaps a lifetime, or perhaps an age only. It was long enough, at any rate, for the Tramp to have changed visibly in appearance — he looked younger, thinner, sprightlier, more shining. He seemed to have shed a number of outward things that made him bulky — bits of beard and clothing, several extra waistcoats, and every scrap of straw and stuff from the hedges that he wore at first. More and more he looked as Judy had seen him, ages and ages ago, emerging from the tarpaulin on the rubbish-heap at the End of the World.

  He sprang alertly to his feet at the sound of Tim’s exclamation. The sunlit morning seemed to spring up with him.

  “We have been very warm indeed,” he sang, “but we shall get warmer still before we find him. Besides, those things aren’t hiding him — they’re looking. Everything and everybody in the whole wide world is looking, but the signs are different for everybody, don’t you see? Each knows and follows their own particular sign. Come on!” he cried, “come on and look! We shall find him in the end.”

  COME-BACK STUMPER’S SIGN

  VI

  The steep b
ank was easily managed. They were up it in a twinkling, a line of dancing figures, all holding hands.

  First went the Tramp, shining and glowing like a mirror in the sunshine — fire surely in him; next Judy, almost flying with the joy and lightness in her — as of air; Tim barely able to keep tight hold of her hand, so busily did his feet love the roots and rabbit-holes of — earth; and finally, Uncle Felix, rolling to and fro, now sideways, now toppling headlong, roaring as he followed like a heavy wave. Fire, air, earth, and water — they summarised existence; owned and possessed the endless day; lived it, were one with it. Their leader, who apparently had swallowed the sun, fused and unified them in this amazing way with — fire.

  And hardly had they passed the line of shy forget-me-nots on the top of the bank, than they ran against a curious looking object that at first appeared to be an animated bundle of some kind, but on closer inspection proved to be a human figure stooping. It was somebody very busy about the edges of a great clump of bramble bushes. At the sound of their impetuous approach it straightened up. It had the face of a man — yellowish, patched with red, breathless and very hot. It was Come-back Stumper.

  He glared at them, furious at being disturbed, yet with an uneasy air, half comical, half ashamed, as of being — caught. He took on a truculent, aggressive attitude, as though he knew he would have to explain himself and did not want to do so. He turned and faced them.

  “Mornin’,” he grunted fiercely. “It’s a lovely day.”

  But they all agreed so promptly with him that he dropped the offensive at once. His face was very hot. It dripped.

  “Energetic as usual,” observed Uncle Felix, while Tim poked among the bushes to see what he had been after, and Judy offered him a very dirty handkerchief to mop his forehead with. His bald head shone and glistened. Wisps of dark hair lay here and there upon it like the feathers of a crow’s torn wing.

  “Thanks, dear,” he said stiffly, using the few inches of ragged cambric and then tucking the article absent-mindedly into a pocket of his shooting coat. “I’ve been up very early — since dawn. Since dawn,” he repeated in a much louder voice, “got up, in fact, with the sun.” He meant to justify his extreme and violent activity. He glanced at the Tramp with a curious air of respect. Tim thought he saluted him, but Judy declared afterwards he was only wiping “the hot stuff off the side of his dear old head.”