“He looks in the unlikely places,” muttered the Tramp again, approvingly. “You’ve been pretty warm this time.” But, again, he said it too low to be audible. Besides, Stumper’s other “find” engrossed everybody’s attention. All were absorbed in the long, dainty object that clung cautiously to his hand and showed no desire to hurry out of sight after the brilliant beetle. It was familiar enough to all of them, yet marvellous. It presented itself in a new, original light.
They watched it spellbound; its tiny legs moved carefully over the wrinkles of the soldier’s skin, feeling its way most delicately, and turning its head this way and that to sniff the unaccustomed odour. Sometimes it looked back to admire its own painted back, and to let its distant tail know that all was going well. The coloured hairs upon the graceful body were all a-quiver. It fairly shone. There was obviously no fear in it; it had perfect control of all its length and legs. Yet, fully aware that it was exploring a new country, it sometimes raised its head in a hesitating way and looked questioningly about it and even into the great faces so close against its eyes.
“A caterpillar! A common Woolly Bear!” observed Tim, yet with a touch of awe.
“It tickles,” observed Stumper.
“I’ll get a leaf,” Judy whispered. “It doesn’t understand your smell, probly.” She turned and picked the biggest she could find, and the caterpillar, after careful observation, moved forward on to it, turning to inform its following tail that all was safe. Gently and cleverly they restored it to the bush whence Stumper had removed it. It went to join the snail-shell and the beetle. They stood a moment in silence and watched the quiet way it hid itself among the waves of green the wind stirred to and fro. It seemed to melt away. It hid itself. It left them. It was gone.
And Stumper turned and looked at them with the air of a man who has justified himself. He had certainly discovered definite signs.
But there was bewilderment among the group as well as pleasure. For signs, they began to realise now, were everywhere indeed. The world was smothered with them. There was no one clear track that they could follow. All Nature seemed organised to hide the thing they looked for. It was a conspiracy. It was, indeed, an “enormous hide,” an endless game of hide-and-seek. The interest and the wonder increased sensibly in their hearts. The thing they sought to find, the Stranger, “It,” by whatever name each chose to call the mysterious and evasive “hider,” was so marvellously hidden. The glimpse they once had known seemed long, long ago, and very far away. It lay like a sweet memory in each heart, half forgotten, half remembered, but always entirely believed in, very dear and very exquisite. The precious memory urged them forward. They would search and search until they re-discovered it, even though their whole lives were spent in the looking. They were quite positive they would find him in the end.
All this lay somehow in the expression on Stumper’s face as he glared at them and ejaculated a triumphant “There! I told you so!” And at that moment, as though to emphasize the thrill of excited bewilderment they felt, a gorgeous brimstone butterfly sailed carelessly past before their eyes and vanished among the pools of sunlight by the forest edge. Its presence added somehow to the elusive and difficult nature of their search. Its flamboyant beauty was a kind of challenge.
“That’s what the caterpillar gets into,” observed Tim dreamily.
“Let’s follow it,” said Judy. “I believe the flying signs are best.”
“Puzzlin’ though,” put in the Tramp behind them. They had quite forgotten his existence. “Let’s ask the gardener what he thinks.”
He pointed to a spot a little further along the edge of the wood where the figure of a man was visible. It seemed a good idea. Led by the Tramp, Uncle Felix and Stumper following slowly in the rear, they moved forward in a group. Weeden might have seen something. They would ask him.
WEEDEN’S SIGN
VII
John WEEDEN — the children always saw his surname in capitals — was probably the most competent Head Gardener of his age, or of any other age: he supplied the household with fruit and vegetables without grumbling or making excuses. When asked to furnish flowers at short notice for a dinner-party he made no difficulty, but just produced them. Neither did he complain about the weather; wet or dry, it was always exactly what his garden needed. All weather to him was Fine Weather. He believed in his garden, loved it, lived in it, was almost part of it. To make excuses for it was to make excuses for himself. WEEDEN was a genius.
But he was mysterious too. He was one-eyed, and the loss endeared him to the children, relating him also, once or twice removed, to Come-Back Stumper; it touched their imaginations. Being an artist, too, he never told them how he lost it, a pitchfork and a sigh were all he vouchsafed upon the exciting subject. He understood the value of restraint, and left their minds to supply what details they liked best. But this wink of pregnant suggestion, while leaving them divinely unsatisfied, sent them busily on the search. They imagined the lost optic roaming the universe without even an attendant eyelid, able to see things on its own account — invisible things. “Weeden’s lost eye’s about,” was a delightful and mysterious threat; while “I can see with the Gardener’s lost eye,” was a claim to glory no one could dispute, for no one could deny it. Its chief duty, however, was to watch the “froot and vegebles” at night and to keep all robbers — two-foot, four-foot, winged, or wriggling robbers — from what Aunt Emily called “destroying everything.”
A source of wonder to the children, this competent official was at the same time something of an enigma to the elders. His appearance, to begin with, was questionable, and visitors, being shown round the garden, had been known to remark upon it derogatively sometimes. It was both in his favour and against him. For, either he looked like an untidy parcel of brown paper, loose ends of string straggling out of him, or else — in his Sunday best — was indistinguishable from a rose-bush wrapped up carefully in matting against the frost. Yet, in either aspect, no one could pretend that he looked like anything but a genuine Head Gardener, the spirit of the kitchen-garden and the potting-shed incarnate.
It was the way he answered questions that earned for him the title of enigma — he avoided a direct reply. (He was so cautious that he would hesitate even when he came to die.) He would think twice about it. The decision to draw the final breath would incapacitate him. He would feel worse — and probably continue alive instead, from sheer inability to make his mind up. In all circumstances, owing to his calling doubtless, he preferred to hedge. If Mrs. Horton asked for celery, he would intimate “I’ll have a look.” When Daddy enquired how the asparagus was doing, he obtained for reply, “Won’t you come and see it for yourself, sir?” Upon Mother’s anxious enquiry if there would be enough strawberries for the School Treat, WEEDEN stated “It’s been a grand year for the berries, mum.” Then, just when she felt relieved, he added, “on the ‘ole.”
For the children, therefore, the Gardener was a man of mystery and power, and when they saw his figure in the distance, their imagination leaped forward with their bodies, and WEEDEN stood wrapped in a glory he little guessed. He was bent double, digging (as usual in his spare time) for truffles beneath the beech trees. These mysterious delicacies with the awkward name he never found, but he liked looking for them.
At first he was so intent upon his endless quest that he did not hear the approach of footsteps.
“No hurry,” said the Tramp, as they collected round the stooping figure and held their feathers up to warn his back. For the wandering eye had a way of seeing what went on behind him. An empty sack, waiting for the truffles, lay beside him. He looked like an untidy parcel, so he was not in his Sunday clothes.
At the sound of voices he straightened slowly and looked round. He seemed pleased with everything, judging by the expression of his eye, yet doubtful of immediate success.
“Good mornin’,” he said, touching his speckled cap to the authorities.
“Found any?” enquired Uncle Felix, sympathetically
.
“It seems a likely spot, maybe,” was the reply. “I’m looking.” And he closed the mouth of the sack with his foot lest they should see its emptiness.
But the use of the verb set the children off at once.
“I say,” Tim exploded eagerly, “we’re looking too — for somebody who’s hiding. Have you seen any one?”
“Some one very wonderful?” said Judy. “Has he passed this way? It’s
Hide-and-Seek, you know.”
WEEDEN looked more mysterious at once. It was strange how a one-eyed face could express so big a meaning. He scratched his head and smiled.
“All my flowers and vegitubles is a-growin’ nicely,” he said at length. “It is a lovely mornin’ for a game.” His eye closed and opened. The answer was more direct than usual. It meant volumes. WEEDEN was in the know. They felt him somehow related to their leader — a kind of organised and regulated tramp.
“You have seen him, then?” cried Judy.
“With your gone eye!” exclaimed Tim. “Which way? And what signs have you got?”
“Flowers, beetles, snail-shells, caterpillars — anything beautiful is a sign, you know,” went on Judy, breathlessly.
“Deep, tender, kind and beautiful,” interposed the Tramp, laying the accent significantly on the first adjective, as if for Weeden’s special benefit.
WEEDEN looked up. “Sounds like my garden things,” he said darkly, more to himself than to the others. He gazed down into the hole he had been digging. The moist earth glistened in the sunlight. He sniffed the sweet, rich odour of it, and scratched his head in the same spot as before — just beneath the peak of his speckled cap. His nose wrinkled up. Then he looked again into the faces, turning his single eye slowly upon each in turn. The Tramp’s remark had reached his cautious brain.
“There’s no sayin’ where anybody sich as you describe him to be might hide hisself a day like this,” he observed deliberately, his optic ranging the sunny landscape with approval. “I never saw sich a beautiful day before — not like to-day. It’s endless sort of. Seems to me as if I’d been at this ‘ole for weeks.”
He paused. The others waited. WEEDEN was going to say something real any moment now, they felt.
“No hurry,” the Tramp reminded him. “Everything’s light and careless, and so are we. There is no longer any Time — to lose.”
His voice half sang, half chanted in the slow, windy way he had, and the Gardener looked up as if a falling apple had struck him on the head. He shifted from one leg to the other; he seemed excited, moved. His single eye was opened — to the sun. He looked as if his body was full of light.
“You was the singer, was you?” he asked wonderingly, the tone low and quiet. “It was you I heard a-singin’ — jest as dawn broke!” He scratched his head again. “And me thinkin’ all the time it was a bird!” he added to himself.
The Tramp said nothing.
WEEDEN then resumed his ordinary manner; he went on speaking as before. But obviously — somewhere deep down inside himself — he had come to a big decision.
“Gettin’ nearer and nearer,” he resumed his former conversation exactly where he had left it off, “but never near enough to get disappointed — ain’t it? When you gets to the end of anything, you see, it’s over. And that’s a pity.”
Uncle Felix glanced at Stumper; Stumper glanced down at the end of his “wooden” leg; the Tramp still said nothing, smiling in his beard, now combed out much smoother than before.
“It comes to this,” said Weeden, “my way of thinkin’ at least.” He scratched wisdom from another corner of his head. “There’s a lot of ‘iding goin’ on, no question about that; and the great thing is — my way of thinkin’ at any rate — is — jest to keep on lookin’.”
The children met him eagerly at this point, using two favourite words that Aunt Emily strongly disapproved of: “deslidedly,” said one; “distinkly,” exclaimed the other.
“That’s it,” continued WEEDEN, pulling down his cap to hide, perhaps, the spot where wisdom would leak out. “And, talking of signs, I say — find out yer own pertickler sign, then follow it blindly — till the end.”
He straightened up and looked with an air of respectful candour at the others. The decision of his statement delighted them. The children felt something of awe in it. Something of their Leader’s knowledge evidently was in him.
“Miss Judy, she gets ‘er signs from the air,” he said, as no one spoke. “Master Tim goes poking along the ground, looking for something with his feet. He feels best that way, feels the earth — things a-growin’ up or things wot go down into ‘oles. Colonel Stumper — and no offence to you, sir — chooses dark places where the sun forgets to shine—”
“Dangerous, jungly places,” whispered Tim, admiringly.
“And Mr. Felix—” he hesitated. Uncle Felix’s easiest way of searching seemed to puzzle him. “Mr. Felix,” he went on at length, “jest messes about all over the place at once, because ‘e sees signs everywhere and don’t know what to foller in partickler for fear of losin’ hisself.”
Come-Back Stumper chuckled audibly, but Uncle Felix asked at once— “And you, WEEDEN? What about yourself, I wonder?”
The Gardener replied without his usual hesitation. It was probably the most direct reply he had ever made. No one could guess how much it cost him. “Underground,” he said. “My signs lies underground, sir. Where the rain-drops ‘ides theirselves on getting down and the grubs keeps secret till they feel their wings. Where the potatoes and the reddishes is,” he added, touching his cap with a respectful finger. He went on with a hint of yearning in his tone that made it tremble slightly: “If I could find igsackly where and ‘ow the potatoes gets big down there” — he pointed to the earth— “or how my roses get colour out of the dirt — I’d know it, wouldn’t I, sir? I’d— ‘ave him, fair!”
The effort exhausted him, it seemed. So deeply was he moved that he had almost gone contrary to his own nature in making such an explicit statement. But he had said something very real at last. It was clear that he was distinctly in the know. Living among natural growing things, he was in touch with life in a deeper sense than they were.
“And me?” the Tramp mentioned lightly, smiling at his companion of the outdoor life. “Don’t leave me out, please. I’m looking like the rest of you.”
WEEDEN turned round and gazed at him. He wore a strange expression that had respect in it, but something more than mere respect. There was a touch of wonder in his eye, a hint of worship almost. But he did not answer; no word escaped his lips. Instead of speaking he moved up nearer; he took three cautious steps, then halted close beside the great burly figure that formed the centre of the little group.
And then he did a curious and significant little act; he held out both his hands against him as a man might hold out his hands to warm them before a warm and comforting grate of blazing coals.
“Fire,” he said; then added, “and I’m much obliged to you.”
He wore a proud and satisfied air, grateful and happy too. He put his cap straight, picked up his spade, and prepared without another word to go on digging for truffles where apparently none existed. He seemed quite content with — looking.
A pause followed, broken presently by Tim: a whisper addressed to all.
“He never finds any. That shows how real it is.”
“They’re somewhere, though,” observed Judy.
They stood and watched the spade; it went in with a crunching sound; it came out slowly with a sort of “pouf,” and a load of rich, black earth slid off it into the world of sunshine. It went in again, it came out again; the rhythm of the movement caught them. How long they watched it no one knew, and no one cared to know: it might have been a moment, it may have been a year or two; so utterly had hurry vanished out of life it seemed to them they stood and watched for ever…when they became aware of a curious sensation, as though they felt the whole earth turning with them. They were moving, surely. Something to which
they belonged, of which they formed a part — was moving. A windy voice was singing just in front of them. They looked up. The words were inaudible, but they knew it was a bit of the same old song that every one seemed singing everywhere as though the Day itself were singing.
The Tramp was going on.
“Hark!” said Tim. “The birds are singing. Let’s go on and look.”
“The world is wild with laughter,” Judy cried, snatching the words from the air about her. “We can fly—” She darted after him.
“Among the imprisoned hours as we choose,” boomed the voice of Uncle
Felix, as he followed, rolling in behind her.
“We can play,” growled Stumper, hobbling next in the line. “My life has just begun.”
Their Leader waited till they all came up with him. They caught him up, gathering about him like things that settled on a sunny bush. It almost seemed they were one single person growing from the earth and air and water. The Tramp glowed there between them like a heart of burning fire.
“He ought to be with us, too,” said Judy, looking back.
“No hurry,” replied the Tramp. “Let him be; he’s following his sign.
When he’s ready, he’ll come along. It’s a lovely day.”
They moved with the rhythm of a flock of happy birds across the field of yellow flowers, singing in chorus something or other about an “extra day.” A hundred years flowed over them, or else a single instant. It mattered not. They took no heed, at any rate. It was so enormous that they lost themselves, and yet so tiny that they held it between a finger and a thumb. The important thing was — that they were getting warmer.
Then Judy suddenly nudged Tim, and Tim nudged Uncle Felix, and Uncle Felix dug his elbow into Come-Back Stumper, and Stumper somehow or other caught the attention of the Tramp — a sort of panting sound, half-whistle and half-gasp. They paused and looked behind them.
“He’s ready,” remarked their Leader, with a laughing chuckle in his beard. “He’s coming on!”
Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood Page 283