Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  They might almost have been telling their dreams at breakfast-time….

  But while the clamour of their excited voices stirred the world beneath the marvellous covering, there rose that other sound — increasing until it overpowered every word they uttered. In the world outside there was a clicking, grating, hard, metallic sound — as though machinery was starting somewhere….

  And Judy, managing somehow or other to lift a corner and peer out, saw that the dawn was breaking in the eastern sky, and that a new day was just beginning. The sun was rising…. She went back again to tell the others, but she could not find them. She did not try very hard; she did not look for them. She just closed her eyes…. The swallows were chattering in the eaves, a robin sang a few marvellous bars, then ceased, and an up-and-under bird sent forth its wild, high bugle-call, then dived out of sight below the surface of the pond.

  Judy did likewise — dived down and under, drawing the soft covering against her cheek, and although her eyes were already closed she closed them somehow a second time. “Everything’s all right,” she had a butterfly sort of thought; “there’s no hurry. It’s not time… yet…!” — and the petal covered her again from head to foot. She had noticed, a little further off, a globular, round object lying motionless beneath another corner of the covering. It gave her a feeling of comfort and security. She slid away to find the others. It seemed she floated, rather. “Everything’s free and careless…and so are — so am I…for we shall never…never forget…!” she remembered sweetly — and was gone, fluttering after the up-and-under bird …into some hidden world she had discovered….

  The old Mill House lay dreaming in the dawn. Transparent shades of pink and gold stole slowly up the eastern sky. A stream of amber diffused itself below the paling stars. Rising from a furnace below the horizon it reached across and touched the zenith, painting mid-heaven with a mystery none could understand; then sank downwards and dipped the crests of the trees, the lawn, the moss-grown tiles upon the roof in that sea of everlasting wonder which is light.

  Dawn caught the old sleeping world once more in its breathless beauty. The earth turned over in her sleep, gasped with delight — and woke. There was a murmur and a movement everywhere. The spacious, stately life that breathes o’er ancient trees came forth from the wood without a centre; from the lines emanated that gracious, almost tender force they harvest in the spring. There was a little shiver of joy among the rose trees. The daisies blinked and stared. And the earth broke into singing.

  Then, in this chorus, came a pause; the thousand voices hushed a moment; the robin ceased its passionate solo in the shrubbery. All listened — listened to another and far sweeter song that stirred with the morning wind among the rose trees. It was very soft and tender, it died away and returned with a faint, mysterious murmur, it rose and fell so gently that it may have been only the rustling of their thousand leaves that guard the opening blossoms.

  Yet it ran with power across the entire waking earth:

  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.

  And as it died away the sun itself came up and shouted it aloud as with a million golden trumpets.

  CHAPTER XVIII. TIME GOES ON AGAIN —

  Hardly had Judy closed her eyes for the second time, however, than the globular object she had noticed in the corner stirred. It turned, but turned all over, as though it were a ball. It made a sideways movement too, a movement best described as budging. And, accompanying the movements, was a comfortable, contented, satisfied sound that some people call deep breathing, and others call a sigh.

  The globular outline then grew slightly longer; one portion of it left the central mass, but left it slowly. The lower part prolonged itself. Slight cracks were audible like sharp reports, muffled but quite distinct. Next, the other end of the ball extended itself, twisted in a leisurely fashion sideways, rose above the general surface and plainly showed itself. It, too, was round. It emerged. Upon its surface shone two small pools of blue. It was a face. Even in the grey, uncertain light this was beyond dispute. It was Maria’s face.

  Maria awoke. She looked about her calmly. Her mind, ever unclouded because it thought of one thing only, took in the situation at a glance. It was dawn, she was in bed and sleepy, it was not time to get up. Dawn, sleep, bed and time belonged to her. There certainly was no hurry.

  The pools of blue then disappeared together, the smaller ball sank down into the pillow to join the larger one, the lower portion that had stretched itself drew in again, and a peaceful sigh informed the universe that Maria intended to resume her interrupted slumbers. She became once more a mere globular outline, self-contained, at rest.

  But, in accepting life as it really was by lying down again, the lesser ball had imperceptibly occupied a new position. Maria’s head had shifted. Her ear now pressed against another portion of the pillow. And this pressure, communicating itself to an object that lay beneath the pillow, touched a small brass handle, jerked it forward, released a bit of quivering wire connected with a set of wheels, and set in motion the entire insides of this hidden object. There was a sound of grating. This hard, metallic sound rose through the feathers, a clicking, thudding noise that reached her brain. It was — she knew instantly — the stopped alarum clock. It had been overwound. The weight of her head had started it again.

  Maria, as usual, by doing nothing in particular, had accomplished much. By yielding herself to her surroundings, she united her insignificant personal forces with the gigantic purposes of Life. She swung contentedly in rhythm with the universe. Maria had set the clock going again!

  There was excitement in her then, but certainly no hurry. Disturbing herself as little as possible, she pushed one hand beneath the pillow, drew out the ticking clock, looked at it quietly, remembered sleepily that it had stopped at dawn — Uncle Felix had said so — put it on the chair beside her bed, and promptly retired again into her eternal centre.

  “Tim’s clock,” she realised, “but I’ve got it.” There was no expression on her face whatever. Another child might have taken the trouble — felt interested, at any rate — to try and see what time it was. But Maria, aware that the dim light would make this a difficult and tedious operation, did nothing of the sort. It could make no difference anyhow to any one, anywhere! She was content to know that it was some time or other, and that the clock was going again. Her plan of life was: interfere with nothing. She did not know, therefore, that the hands pointed with accuracy to 4 A. M., because she merely did not care to know. But, not caring to know placed her on a loftier platform of intelligence than the rest of the world — certainly above that of her sister, Judy, who was snoring softly among the shadows just across the room. Maria didn’t know that she didn’t know. No one could rebuke her with “You might have known,” much less “You didn’t know,” — because she didn’t know she didn’t know! It was the biggest kind of knowledge in the world. Maria had it.

  But before she actually regained her absolute centre, and long before she lost sight of herself within its depths, dim thoughts came floating through her mind like pictures that moonlight paints upon high summer clouds. She saw these pictures; that is, she looked at them and recognised their existence; but she asked no questions. They reached her through the ticking of the busy clock beside the bed; the ticking brought them; but it brought them back. Maria remembered things. And chief among them were the following: That Uncle Felix had promised everybody an Extra Day, that he had stopped all the clocks to let it come, that this Extra Day was to be her own particular adventure, that last night was Saturday, and that this was, therefore, Sunday morning, very early.<
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  And the instant she remembered these things, they were real — for her. She accepted them, one and all, even the contradictions in them. If this was actually an Extra Day it could not be Sunday morning too, and vice versa. But yet she knew it was. Both were. The confusion was a confusion of words only. There were too many words about.

  “Why not?” expressed her attitude. The clock might tick itself to death for all she cared. The Extra Day was her adventure and she claimed it. But she did not bother about it.

  Above all, she asked no questions. Nothing really meant anything in particular, because everything meant everything. To ask questions, even of herself, involved hearing a lot of answers and listening to them. But answers were explanations, and explanations muddled and obscured. Explanations were a new set of questions merely. People who didn’t know asked questions, and people who didn’t understand gave explanations. Aunt Emily explained — because she didn’t understand. Also, because she didn’t understand, she didn’t know. To ask a question was the same thing as to explain it. Everything was one thing. She, Maria, both knew and understood.

  She did not say all this, she did not think it even; she just felt it all: it was her feeling. Believing in her particular adventure of an Extra Day, she had already experienced it. She had shared it with the others too. It was her Extra Day, so she could do with it what she pleased. “They can have it,” she gave the clock to understand. “I’m going to sleep again.” All life was an extra day to her.

  She went to sleep; sleep, rather, came to her. Happy dreams amused and comforted her. And, while she dreamed, the dawn slid higher up the sky, ushering in — Sunday Morning.

  CHAPTER XIX. — AS USUAL

  Consciousness was first — unconsciousness; the biggest changes are unconscious before they are conscious. They have been long preparing. They fall with a clap; and people call them sudden and exclaim, “How strange!” But it is only the discovery and recognition that are sudden. It all has happened already long ago — happened before. The faint sense of familiarity betrays it. It is there the strangeness lies.

  And it was this delicate fragrance of an uncommunicable strangeness that floated in the air when Uncle Felix and the children came down to breakfast that Sunday morning and heard the sound of bells in the wind across the fields. They came down punctually for a wonder, too; Maria, last but not actually late, brought the alarum clock with her. “It’s going,” she stated quietly, and handed it to her brother.

  Tim took it without a word, looked at it, shook it, listened to its ticking against his ear, then set it on the mantelpiece where it belonged. He seemed pleased to have it in his possession again, yet something puzzled him. An expression of wonder flitted across his face; the eyes turned upwards; he frowned; there was an effort in him — to remember something. He turned to Maria who was already deep in porridge.

  “Did you wind it up?” he asked. “I thought it’d stopped — last night.”

  “It’s going,” she said, thinking of her porridge chiefly.

  “It wasn’t, though,” insisted Tim. He reflected a moment, evidently perplexed. “I wound it and forgot,” he added to himself, “or else it wound itself.” He went to his place and began his breakfast.

  “Wound itself,” mentioned Maria, and then the subject dropped.

  It was Sunday morning, and everybody was dressed in Sunday things. The excitement of the evening before, the promise of an Extra Day, the detailed preparation — all this had disappeared. Being of yesterday, it was no longer vital: certainly there was no necessity to consult it. They looked forward rather than backward; the mystery of life lay ever just in front of them, what lay behind was already done with. They had lived it, lived it out. It was in their possession therefore, part of themselves.

  No one of the four devouring porridge round that breakfast table had forgotten about the promise, any more than they had forgotten giving up their time-pieces, the conversation, and all the rest of it. It was not forgetfulness. It was not loss of interest either that led no one to refer to it, least of all, to clamour for fulfilment. It was quite another motive that kept them silent, and that, even when Uncle Felix handed back the watches, prevented them saying anything more than “Thank you, Uncle,” then hanging them on to belt and waistcoat.

  Expectation — an eternal Expectation — was established in them.

  But there was also this sense of elusive strangeness in their hearts, the certainty that an enormous interval had passed, almost the conviction that an Extra Day — had been. Somewhere, somehow, they had experienced its fulfilment: It was now inside them. A strange familiarity hung about this Sunday morning.

  Yet there were still a million things to do and endless time in which to do them. Expectation was stronger than ever before, but the sense of Interval brought a happy feeling of completion too. There was no hurry. They felt something of what Maria felt, living at the centre of a circle that turned unceasingly but never finished. It was Maria’s particular adventure, and Maria had shared it with them. Wonder and expectation made them feel more than usually — alive.

  They talked normally while eating and drinking. If things were said that skirted a mystery, no one tried to find its name or label it. It was just hiding. Let it hide! To find it was to lose the mystery, and life without mystery was unthinkable.

  “That’s bells,” said Tim, “it’s church this morning”; but he did not sigh, there was no sinking of the heart, it seemed. He spoke as if it was an adventure he looked forward to. “I’ve decided what I’m going to be,” he went on— “an engineer, but a mining engineer. Finding things in the earth, valuable things like coal and gold.” Why he said it was not clear exactly; it had no apparent connection with church bells. He just thought of life as a whole, perhaps, and what he meant to do with it. He looked forward across the years to come. He distinctly knew himself alive.

  “I shall put sixpence in, I think,” observed Judy presently. “It’s a lot. And I shall wear my blue hat with the pheasant’s feather—”

  “Pheasants feather,” repeated Tim in a single word, amused as usual by a curious sound.

  “And a wild rose here,” she added, pointing to the place on her dress, though nobody felt interested enough to look. Her remark about the Collection was more vital than the other. Collections in church were made, they believed, to “feed the clergyman.” And Sunday was the clergyman’s day.

  “I’ve got sixpence,” Tim hastened to remind everybody. “I’ve got a threepenny bit as well.”

  “It’s sixpence to-day, I think,” Judy decided almost tenderly. Behind her thought was a caring, generous impulse; the motherly instinct sent her mind to the collection for the clergyman’s comfort. But romance stirred too; she wanted to look her best. Her two main tendencies seemed very much alive this Sunday morning. The hat and the sixpence — both were real.

  Maria, as usual, had little or nothing to say. She spoke once, however.

  “I dreamed,” she informed the company. She did not look up, keeping her head bent over the bread and marmalade upon her plate; her blue eyes rolled round the table once, then dropped again. No one asked for details of her dream, she had no desire to supply them. She announced her position comfortably, as it were, set herself right with life, and quietly went on with the business of the moment, which was bread and marmalade.

  Uncle Felix looked up, however, as she said it.

  “That reminds me,” he observed, “I dreamed too. I dreamed that you dreamed.”

  “Yes,” Maria replied briefly, moving her eyes in his direction, but not her head. No other remarks were made; the statement was too muddled to stimulate interest particularly.

  When breakfast was over they went to the open window and threw crumbs to a robin that was obviously expecting to be fed. They all leaned out with their heads in the sunlight, watching it. It hopped from a twig on to the ground, its body already tight to bursting. It looked like a toy balloon — as though it wore a dress of red elastic stretched to such a poi
nt that the merest pinprick must explode it with a sharp report; and it hopped as though springs were in its feet. The earth, like a taut sheet, made it bounce. Tim aimed missiles of bread rolled into pellets at its head, but never hit it.

  “It’s a lovely morning,” remarked Uncle Felix, looking across the garden to the yellow fields beyond. “A perfect day. We’ll walk to church.” He brushed the breakfast crumbs from the waistcoat of his neat blue suit, lit his pipe, sniffed the air contentedly, and had an air generally of a sailor on shore-leave.

  Judy sprang up. “There’s button-holes to get,” she mentioned, and flew out of the room like a flash of sunlight or a bird.

  Tim raced after her. “Wallflower for me!” he cried, while Judy’s answer floated back from halfway down the passage: “I’ll have a wild rosebud — it’ll match my hat!”

  Uncle Felix and Maria were left alone, gazing out of the window side by side upon the “lovely morning.” She was just high enough to see above the edge, and her two hands lay sprawled, fingers extended, upon the shining sill.

  “Yes,” she mentioned quietly, as to herself, “and I’ll have a forget-me-not.” Her eyes rolled up sideways, meeting those of her uncle as he turned and noticed her.

  For quite suddenly he “noticed” her, became aware that she was there, discovered her. He stared a moment, as though reflecting. That “yes” had a queer, familiar sound about it, surely.

  “Maria,” he said, “I believe you will. Everything comes to you of its own accord somehow.”

  She nodded.

  “And there’s another thing. You’ve got a secret — haven’t you?” It occurred to him that Maria was rather wonderful.