It startled them and broke the water-spell. For the singing stopped abruptly too. At the same moment Judy and Tim arrived, their arms full of flowers, hemlock, ferns, and bulrushes. They were breathless and exhausted; both talked at once; they had quite forgotten, apparently, what they had gone to find. Judy had seen a king-fisher, Tim had discovered tracks of an otter; in the excitement they forgot about the button-hole. But, somehow, the bird, the animal, and the flowers were the same thing really — one big simple thing. Only the point of view was different.
“We’ve looked simply everywhere!” cried Judy.
“Just look what we found!” Tim echoed.
To Uncle Felix it seemed they said one and the same thing merely — using one word in many syllables.
“Beautiful!” agreed Stumper, as they emptied their arms at his feet in wild profusion; “and enough for everybody too!”
Stumper also said the thing they had just said. Uncle Felix watched him move forward, where Maria was already using the heaped-up greenery as a cushion for her back, and pick something off the stem of a giant bulrush.
“But that’s what I like best,” he exclaimed. “Look at the colour, will you — blue and cream and yellow! You can hear the Ganges in it, if you listen close enough.” He held a small, coloured snail-shell between his sinewy fingers, then placed it against his ear, while the others, caught by a strange enveloping sense of wonder, stared and listened, swept for a moment into another world.
“How marvellous!” whispered some one.
“Extrornary!” another murmured.
“Yes,” said Maria. Her voice made a sound like a thin stone falling from a height into water. But Maria had said the same thing as the others, only said it shorter. An entire language lay in that mono-syllable. Again, it was the point of view of doing, saying one enormous thing. And Maria’s point of view was everywhere at once — the centre.
“Listen!” she added the next minute.
Perhaps the sunlight quivering on the surface of the stream confused them, or perhaps it was the murmur and movement of the leaves upon the banks that brought the sense of sweet, queer bewilderment upon all five. A new sound there certainly was — footsteps, as though some one came dancing — voices, as though some one sang. Figures were seen in the distance among the waving world of green; they moved behind the cataract of falling willow branches; and their distance was as the distance of a half-remembered dream.
“They’re coming,” gasped Judy below her breath.
“They’re coming back,” Tim whispered, the tone muffled, underground.
“Eh?” ejaculated Stumper. “Coming back?” His voice, too, had distance in it.
Whether they saw it in the reflections on the running water, or whether the maze of shadow and sunshine in the wooded banks produced it, no one knew exactly. The figures, at any rate, were plainly visible, moving along with singing and dancing through the summery noontide of the brilliant day. No one spoke while they went by, no one except Maria who at intervals murmured “Yes.” There was no other audible comment or remark. They afterwards agreed that Weeden was seen clearest, but Thompson and Mrs. Horton were fairly distinct as well, and bringing up the rear was a figure in blue that could only have been the Policeman who lived usually upon the high road to London. They carried flowers in their arms, they moved lightly and quickly — it was uncommonly like dancing — and their voices floated through the woodland spaces with a sound that, if it was not singing, was at least an excellent imitation — an attempt to sing!
“They’re not lost,” said Tim, as they disappeared from view. “They’re just looking — for the way.”
“The way home,” said Judy. “And they’re following some one — who knows it.”
“Yes,” added Maria. For another figure, more like a tree moving in the wind than anything else, and certainly looking differently to each of them — another figure was seen in advance of the group, seen in flashes, as it were, and only glimpses of it discernible among the world of moving green. This other figure was singing too; snatches of wild sweet music floated through the quiet wood — one said the singing of a bird, another, the wind, a third, the rippling murmur of the stream — but, to one and all, an enchanting and enticing sound. And, to one and all, familiar too, with the familiarity of a half-remembered dream.
And a flood of memory rose about them as they watched and listened, a tide that carried them away with it into the heart of something they knew, yet had forgotten. In the few moments’ interval an eternity might have passed. Their hearts opened curiously, they saw wonder growing like a flower inside — the exquisite wonder of common things. There was something they were looking for, but they had found it. The flower of wonder blossomed there before their very eyes, explaining the world, but not explaining it away, explaining simply that it was wonderful beyond all telling. They all knew suddenly what they didn’t know they knew; they understood what nobody understands. None knew why it came just at this particular moment, and none knew where it came from either. It was there, so what else mattered. It broke upon them out of the heart of the summer’s day, out of this very ordinary Sunday morning, out of the brimming life all about them that was passing but could never pass away. The familiar figures of the gardener, the butler, the policeman and the cook brought back to them the memory of something they had forgotten, yet brought it back in the form of endless and inexhaustible enticement rather than of complete recovery. There had been long preparation somewhere, growth, development; but that was past and they gave no thought to it; Expectancy and Wonder rushed them off their feet. The world hid something. Every one was looking for it. They must go on looking, looking, looking too!
What it was they had forgotten — they entirely forgot. Only the marvellous hint remained, and the certainty that it could be found. For, to each of them it seemed, came this fairy reminder, stealing deliciously upon the senses: somewhere, somehow, they had known an experience that had enriched their lives. It had become part of them. It had always been in them, but they had found it now. They felt quite positive about it. They believed. To Tim came messages from the solid earth about him, secrets from creatures that lived in it and knew; Judy, catching a thousand kisses from the air upon her cheeks, divined the mystery of all flying life — that brought the stars within her reach; Maria, possessing all within herself, remained steady and calm at the eternal centre of the circle — a clearing-house for messages from everywhere at once. Asking nothing for herself, she merely wanted to give away, give out. She said “Yes” to all that came her way; and all did come her way. To every one of them, to Stumper and Uncle Felix too, came a great conviction that they had passed nearer, somehow, to an everlasting joy. There was no hurry, life had just begun — seemed singing everywhere about them. There was Unity.
“It’s a lovely day,” remarked Uncle Felix presently. “I want my luncheon.”
He picked up Maria and moved on across the bridge.
“It’s the Extra Day,” Maria whispered in his ear. “It’s my adventure, but you all can have it.”
The others followed with Come-Back Stumper, and in the lane they saw the figures of Weeden, Thompson and Mrs. Horton in front of them, coming home from church. They were walking quietly enough.
“We’re not late, then,” Tim remarked. “There’s lots of time!”
Crossing the field in the direction of the London road a policeman was moving steadily. They saw him stoop and pick a yellow flower as he went. He was off to take charge of the world upon his Sunday beat. He disappeared behind a hedge. The butler and the cook vanished through a side-door into the old Mill House about the same time.
In due course, they also arrived at the porch, and Uncle Felix set his burden down. As they scraped their muddy boots and rubbed them on the mat, their backs were turned to the outside world; but Maria, whose boots required no scraping, happened to face it still. As usual she faced in all directions like a circle.
“Look,” she said. “There’s some one comin
g!”
And they saw the figure of a tramp go past the opening of the drive where the London road was just visible. He paused a moment and looked towards the house. He did not come in. He just looked — and waved his hand at them. The next minute he was gone. But not before Maria had returned his wave.
“He’ll come back,” suggested Stumper, as they went inside.
“Yes,” said Maria. “He’s mine — but you can have him too.”
Ten minutes later, when they all sat down to lunch, the big blue figure of the policeman passed the opening of the drive. Being occupied with hot roast beef, they did not see him. He paused a moment, looked towards the house, and then went slowly out of sight again along the London road, following the tramp….
THE END
SAMBO AND SNITCH
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER I
IT was boiling hot in the garden and the twelve o’clock bell had been ringing for a whole minute when Sambo, aged six, popped his head out of the cowshed door and said, ‘Oh, bother!’
The bell meant that it was time for him to go indoors and rest till lunch. Topsy, his younger sister, had already heard it and gone in; he could see her fat, round figure waddling past the drawing-room windows in the distance. She liked going in to lie down, he remembered. That was because she was so round and fat probably; it was easier for her to lie down than stand up. Anyhow, he didn’t want to flop on a bed and rest. He wanted to stay and watch the calf, to stroke its head, give it hay, talk to it. He loved all animals. He understood what they felt and thought. And he was sure they understood him, too, when he talked to them.
The bell had stopped ringing now. Nannie’s voice was shouting for him instead.
Sambo sighed — oh, such a deep sigh. Then he said good-bye to the young calf, who blinked back at him understandingly, and walked slowly down the path towards the house. He heard Nannie shouting and shouting, but he did not answer. He just mopped his face.
‘Why ever does Nannie go on shouting like that?’ he said to himself. ‘I heard the bell long ago!’
And at that instant a large brown lizard darted across the path in front of him, so close to his feet that he almost stepped on it. There were pretty black spots on its back. Sambo loved these lizards, but he could never catch one. They went such an awful pace.
He stood still with excitement.
‘Oh, I say!’ he cried. ‘Here’s a lizard! Look at it just!’
Now, as a rule, these lizards flickered down a crack in the stones as quick as light and vanished. But this one didn’t. It stopped. It might have been made of stone. It made no movement. Its brown back shimmered in the heat. One brilliant eye peeped up at him. He had never seen such behaviour before. There was something unusual about this lizard.
‘If only I could catch it!’ thought Sambo, and began to bend down very cautiously — then stopped in amazement and stared. For at this moment the lizard spoke.
‘Something’s pricked my tail,’ said the squeaky voice like a slate-pencil.
Sambo felt such a thrill run over his body that, in spite of the hot sun, he shivered. He didn’t know what to do or say. He kept perfectly still and waited.
‘A hawk dropped on me,’ continued the tiny thin voice. ‘I was down a crack in a twinkle, but I didn’t twinkle fast enough.’ The voice became indignant. ‘Its beak pricked my tail!’
Sambo just stared and stared. Nannie and bells were all forgotten. His whole life was centred on the lizard. He felt an enormous surprise, yet at the same time it seemed quite natural that a lizard should talk — talk to him, at least.
‘Well, why don’t you say something?’ squeaked the lizard. ‘I opened the conversation. It’s your turn now.’
But Sambo’s tongue refused to move. The only things he could think of to say were? ‘How do you do?’ or ‘Did it hurt?’ and neither of these seemed quite right, he felt. Besides, the lizard sounded a bit angry now, and that rather frightened him. Lizards couldn’t bite, could they? He wasn’t quite sure.
‘Pricked my tail, I told you,’ repeated the lizard, its body still motionless, its bright eyes still peeping up at him. ‘The hawk did.’
Then suddenly he found his voice. His surprise left him.
‘It didn’t,’ he said, rather bluntly.
‘It did,’ said the lizard fiercely.
‘It didn’t,’ repeated the boy, and straightened up to his full height.
‘How do you know?’ squeaked the other. ‘You can’t see up there anyhow!’
‘It didn’t,’ Sambo said again, trying not to be rude.
‘Prove it,’ the lizard snapped in a voice of keen annoyance.
‘Because you haven’t got one!’ said Sambo flatly.
This seemed to upset the lizard dreadfully. Its voice rose to a still shriller note.
‘What d’you mean?’ it screamed.
‘It’s gone!’ was the answer.
At this the lizard moved for the first time. An extraordinary expression came into its pointed face. It turned its head to see. As its head turned, its body turned too, and of course the tail turned with the rest of it. It went faster and faster, till it looked like a brown wheel whirling. But it couldn’t catch up. It couldn’t see its own tail.
‘I can’t see my own tail,’ it panted presently, pausing a moment in its whirl. Its voice sounded rather disappointed, almost sad.
‘Because it isn’t there,’ explained Sambo sympathetically. ‘I told you once.’ He was getting cross with it. ‘You’ve only got a stump left.’
Now, hardly had Sambo said this when he realized he had said an awful thing. He had. But it was too late to change it now.
‘That’s rude,’ said the lizard quietly. It was not angry, only hurt. ‘Worse than rude, it’s unkind. It’s like telling your mother she’s lost her looks, or her hair, or that she squints — something unpleasant that she knows, but doesn’t want to be told about.’
Sambo felt unhappy. Already he liked this lizard immensely. ‘I’m awfully, awfully sorry,’ he said, mopping his perspiring forehead.
‘Thanks!’ squeaked the other instantly. ‘Now we’re friends again.’
It was the way his own mother forgave him always. He liked it.
‘Are you a mother then?’ he asked politely.
‘Of course. I’m a female. All females with us are mothers.’
‘Oh,’ he exclaimed, remembering his Natural History lessons.
‘And you’re a reptile, aren’t you, too?’
‘That’s our family, yes,’ replied the lizard proudly. ‘I belong to the great reptile family, like the snakes and crocodiles. Oh, rather! I’m glad you know that at least.’
‘ — You lay eggs, don’t you?’
‘ — I should think I do. Little beauties!’
‘ — And may I have one, please, for my collection?’
‘When I’ve got any,’ was the reply, ‘you certainly may,’
The lizard kept silent then for a bit. It didn’t move. The boy kept silent too. He just watched it. It was still panting from its violent whirling after its own tail. He could see its little sides puffing in and out like tiny bellows. The brown skin rose and fell, the black spots with it. How amazingly still it kept! It might have been a stuffed one, except for its heaving sides.
Sambo waited for it to speak again, but as it said nothing, he presently made a remark himself.
‘The hawk took it,’ he explained kindly, referring to the lost tail.
‘I didn’t twinkle fast enough down the crack, I suppose,’ came the reply in a gentle voice.
‘That part of you didn’t,’ Sa
mbo suggested. ‘The rest of you was like lightning. It always is.’
He heard the lizard laugh. It was like the queer sounds Father got on the wireless machine and called ‘Berlin’ or ‘Madrid.’
‘Oh, I know,’ it said, when it had finished laughing. ‘You’ve often tried to catch me, haven’t you? But you can’t. I can always twinkle fast enough to get away from you. A hawk’s different. You don’t hear it coming, for one thing. It drops like a cannon ball, for another. Hawks like us very much, you see.’
‘I see,’ agreed Sambo politely.
The lizard thought for a moment.
‘Now, will you please show me where I end?’ it asked.
‘There,’ said Sambo, pointing. He was delighted to be of use to his new friend.
‘Oh, you may touch me. Pointing’s no good. Touch the end of my body, please.’
It was exactly what Sambo had been longing to do. He bent down and put his hand out cautiously. He touched the dry little body on the stump of the tail. It felt like the ginger he got from dessert sometimes, only smoother and more slippery.
Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood Page 289