Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  With one hand buried in his fur, she lay and listened to the silence about her that, but for the low rumbling, itself now growing less, was unbroken. The air was still, not even a board or cupboard creaked; above all no Tick tock! was audible, not even the tiny voice of the dreaded watch she seemed to carry ever in her heart.

  “Now, I must think everything out,” she told herself, “and see what it all means, and why — and who — no, where, I mean — no, no,” she corrected herself again, “that’s all wrong, Judas, isn’t it? It’s what I’ve got to do that’s the important thing—”

  And she gave Judas little prods that had no effect beyond squeezing out tiny jets of purring that broke off in isolated fashion from the main sound and were slightly higher in tone, and almost querulous. “That’s a real help, my black darling. Thank you,” and prodded him again and again, until presently the shrill little, broken-off purrs stopped popping out altogether. “Yes, you’re right,” she whispered, “you’re quite right, Judas. There’s no good your giving me advice until I’ve told you what I want advice about. I must think everything out alone first, of course. I’ll come to you later.” And instead of prodding him, she fell to stroking him softly into deeper sleep.

  At the same time she fell to thinking — only to realize almost immediately that she could not really think at all. Pictures came to her, but not thoughts. She could see pictures of all that had happened, and could ask herself questions about these pictures, but she could not really think. She could not reason, argue, analyse. Her mind was a rushing stream of jostling pictures above which, like dancing gnats, swarmed a host of question marks. Darting at one picture after another, she seized upon them in a series as best she could, hanging them on a wall inside her head, the nail being always a curly interrogation mark that wriggled into softness and let the picture drop and be swept away.

  Yet, behind this phantasmagoria that ever danced and shifted, certain ideas persisted oddly, forming a dim background that held steady. Her mind, at any rate, always came back, back to these main ideas. Think about them she could not; but see them clearly she could.

  “I’m in a wonderful, delightful world,” she told herself, “but I’ve been brought here, put down in it —— plop! I didn’t ask to come. I can enjoy myself enormously in it, only there’s something I’ve got to do that spoils my enjoyment and even prevents it. I’m here to look for something, and if I don’t find it there’s no point in my having come. In fact I only came really to find it. But I’ve forgotten what I came to find, and no one can tell me what it is. Nor can anyone tell me why I came to find something — why I’m here at all. Ugh! It’s awful, wicked, cruel! I knew once myself, but that, too, I’ve forgotten. And I’ve only got a little time to do it in. Oh, dear, oh, dear! What a ridiculous muddle!”

  In a flash all this came to her, in a single instant, but she turned away from the picture of the limited time because she did not care for it.

  “It’s when I’m enjoying myself with the Fruit Stoners,” darted in next, “that I forget always. Only I’d much rather enjoy myself than go hunting about and fagging myself out to find something that I can’t even remember what it is,” her words jumbled on in a muddled sentence. And, this picture bringing rather an uneasy feeling with it, she let it rush away with its wriggling interrogation mark and vanish among a thousand others, from which she instantly picked out a more satisfactory one. She chose the Fruit Stoners with their funny, crinkly faces.

  “Judas,” she whispered, turning to her silent, sleeping friend, “you like the Fruit Stoners too, don’t you, dear? I know you do, for I saw you rubbing against them and trying to get into their rooms. You knew them before just as I did — somewhere. You wanted to play with them, that’s what it was, you black rascal.” She squeezed her face down into his friendly fur. “Well, so do I, Judas. There’s nothing I’d like better. We’re both black rascals evidently. I could play with them for ever. Only you mustn’t be rough, remember. That black paw of yours rather frightens them. It’s not kind to knock them about on to the floor.”

  His silent sympathy helped and encouraged her, and though he made no comment or interruption, she knew he was listening to every word she said.

  Her mind flew off among the queer, jolly Fruit Stoners again. They passed before her in vivid pictures and at lightning speed. The Sailor had left on a long voyage, but he would come back again, his gold ear-rings dangling; there was a new dress she must try on at the Tailor’s; the Tinker, sharpening that precious knife, would show her the wood fire where he cooked his supper below the hedge where the wild roses shone; the Ploughboy would lift her on to a great horse’s back — all of them in a series of coloured pictures danced about her, each with his alluring invitation, each busy with his particular calling, and the Gentleman would deck her in brilliant jewels and take her to marvellous dinner-parties at Buckingham Palace, where the Soldier would stand on guard behind her chair, and the Thief — The Thief! When she came to him, the rushing series halted, stopped its lightning flow, so that he seemed to stand out more closely before her, more definitely somehow, than the rest. That dreadful, dangerous man! He had stolen her ribbon, yet so swiftly, cleverly, that she had not seen it go. Those long, lovely fingers! Those slender, shapely hands that must have touched her very face and skin! Those quick, penetrating eyes that took in everything instantly! She shrank a little, as the tiny shock again raced down her spine, and while she wanted the figure to go, she yet clung to it as though it fascinated her. There! It was gone. In her mind she saw the whole group of Fruit Stoners whirling in their strange circle round the great bed.

  “Judas!” she whispered into his pointed ear, whose feathery hairs tickled her lips, “aren’t they just gorgeous? And to think I made them! It’s too wonderful to be true, you know. And I’m going to make everything better and more comfortable for them too. Each can have a house to himself, and wear nice things, and then — Oh, Judas, I think I must really marry every one of them in turn and live in the Big House and be happy ever afterwards — in silk—”

  Her thoughts, these picture-thoughts, broke off abruptly as a gigantic interrogation mark hung wriggling over the bed. She stared at it fixedly.

  “Where did I know them, Judas? Where have we met before? Where used you and I to play with them? Why do they seem so familiar?”

  Judas knew, she felt sure, but it was clear he did not wish to talk about it at the moment. This feeling of vague familiarity haunted her uneasily, and a curious little ache came with the question, for the question seemed unanswerable. Everything would become so much easier and more comfortable if she could only know where she had come from, and exactly why she had come at all. There was this flaw in her happiness. Yet was the question really unanswerable? A queer certainty rose in her that somewhere deep down inside herself the answer lay, that in the long run she would remember and would know.

  “Some day, Judas, I shall get it all clear—”

  The pointed ear had given a sudden twitch, and she drew her lips back sharply.

  Some day! Some day, indeed! The hideous reminder flashed in — that she had only Five Minutes, and her calmness scattered, for with it came that sense of puzzled bewilderment that had fear behind it. Here was something that lay utterly beyond anything she could possibly understand. Minutes! Days! Months! Years! All passing. A strange phrase tore through her like a lost, hunting wind. A thousand years in thy sight — gone before she could catch its end, its tail. There! She was inventing these odd phrases again. Where did they come from, these absurd phrases without meaning? Why did her spine again go all shivery and tickly?

  Five Minutes! She tried to drive the picture away, to force it into the background, to hide it from her mind. It brought discomfort with it, a touch of alarm, a sense of that awful hurry-scurry. She made an effort to bring the Fruit Stoners back in its place, the jolly crew that were never in a hurry, and though they instantly flooded her mind again and danced in their ring again about the bed, the other unwelcome pi
cture did not go, but stayed and mingled with them.

  She must think about it. These ridiculous Five Minutes! They had been given to her by that horrible Man who Wound the Clocks, the man who had brought her here, dumping her down unasked in this lovely and exciting world, only to warn her, it seemed, that she could not enjoy it — because her time was limited to these ludicrous Five Minutes.

  She did now make a very great effort to get this straight a little, while Judas, by his quiet, sympathetic attitude, helped her. The outstanding fact that he just accepted the situation without question or criticism pointed the way.

  “Judas,” she thanked him, “I believe I’ve got it, my dark angel. And if you’ll stop twitching your ear and keep the tip of your tail still for once, I will tell you about it. It’s like this, you see, you bag of mystery: my Five Minutes only count — while I’m using them. When I’m not using them they’re not being spent — they’re not passing! When I’m with the Fruit Stoners, the time’s different. There’s no hurry then!”

  So inconceivably rapid was the rush of thought-pictures in her, that even while she whispered this into the furry ear, a hundred others had come and gone. The Fruit Stoners, she remembered, all laughed at her Five Minutes, and thought of the dreaded Clock Man as rather a tricky figure of fun, a fairy-tale person of no importance. The Apothecary regarded the idea of anything or anybody coming to an end as a sort of legend only, and one of the others — she had forgotten who it was — had used the word “nonsense.” The Apothecary, indeed, had stated definitely that her time was different to theirs, but that at any rate it was her own to spend where and when she pleased. He had warned her, however — she had better not let the Clock Man strike in her presence. If she heard that strike, her Five Minutes — whatever they might be, he had laughed — her time would be up and she would have to go. And all of them, every one, had mentioned as a serious grievance the divisions of This Year and Next Year, which somehow enclosed and limited them stupidly, and in any case muddled them all up badly. Their natural condition was endless leisure. They lived now. They knew no past or future, only a gorgeous Present. To be made to jump about from this year to next year, then to dodge back again each time she played with them, was, of course, a disconcerting, crippling business they were right to look upon as a grievance. She could, and would, alter that, of course, but just now she was busy with her own Five Minutes, and she was sure that she had made a great discovery. It had dawned upon her mysteriously, coming she knew not whence. From Judas probably, since he knew all that sort of thing. For all these ideas passed in a single instant through her mind while she whispered the few words into his receptive, feathery ear.

  Her Five Minutes — which otherwise must have finished ages ago — only passed while she was actually using them. This she suddenly realized. The rest of the time, which was the Fruit Stoners’ sort of time, were the great intervals between, and these intervals, of course, never passed at all. They could not pass away. The alternate sense of endless leisure and panic hurry-scurry seemed clearer to her now. The hurry-scurry had to do with the Man who Wound the Clocks, while the other — yes, the other —

  “Oh, Judas, Judas,” she whispered, with a touch of anguish rising through her, “it’s gone again — that tremendous name — the powerful name that — that keeps me safe — and makes hurry silly — !”

  The pictures had vanished, her mind was an empty, gaping blank, and the strenuous efforts she made to recover the forgotten name filled her with such confusion that at first she did not notice that the deep silence of the room was broken by a tiny sound. It was faint and distant, but it was coming closer, growing louder. Steadily, steadily, it approached. It emerged from the depths of the great, dim room. And then suddenly she became aware of it.

  Tick tock! Tick tock!

  It seemed both inside her and at the far end of the room.

  She sprang into a sitting position as if she had been shot. She listened, quivering all over, and in the same instant, Judas, startled from sleep by the bouncing mattress, took a flying leap on to the floor and vanished like a shadow. He went so fast that she could not even see what direction he took, or where he disappeared to. He was gone.

  Tick tock! Tick tock! the warning sound continued. The awful Man who Wound the Clocks was there, watching, waiting, ever at her heels. The feeling of wild hurry-scurry swept over her, the sense of delightful leisure vanished. She had been wasting time again, enjoying herself with all these exciting and amusing pictures. She had entirely forgotten that she had a purpose to fulfil, a thing of tremendous importance she had come to look for, a pearl of great price that she must find.

  Now, as she sat rigid on the bed and listened, this swept back upon her with its solemn warning. Her heart was beating rapidly. Was a strike coming? Did she hear a sound of grinding?

  Tick tock! Tick tock! It did not stop, but it seemed to get no louder, it came no closer, it merely beat on steadily, remorselessly. Of course, she then realized again, it never actually stopped at all. It was beating always, always. Only her mind had been too occupied with other things to notice it. She had been so busy with her pictures that she had not heard it.

  Was she too late now?... She was aware that a long, long interval had passed over her since she came into the room. A period of time, yet not of ordinary time, somehow, had queerly flowed over her, something she could not measure and yet recognized. A touch of panic came into her blood, and she sprang from the great comfortable bed and stood bolt upright in the middle of the floor.

  “The search!” she cried out aloud. “I must begin my search, or I shall be too late! I shall be too old! Perhaps I’m too old already.”

  Too old! The strange, awful notion steadied her. Had she grown older? Was she growing up? Where did the idea come from? What in the world was happening to her? Too late, too old, to begin! What did it mean — this sense of a long interval and growing older?

  The sound was fainter now, farther away, like warning bells a sad wind bore into the distance. There had been no ominous grinding, anyhow, no sign of the dreaded strike. But her sense of urgent hurry, of being perhaps too late unless she acted at once, did not leave her.

  “I must, I must find it,” her voice cried out again. “Once I’ve found it, the strike won’t matter. I shall be ready to go then — go back with it! Oh, my Pearl! My Pearl of Great Price!

  She did not realize quite what she was saying, did not quite understand what her own words meant as they rushed out of her mouth. The shock of urgent, anxious hurry that galvanized her towards this imperative need for instant action seemed to shake them from her lips. The memory that there was someone who could help her, a name she could call upon that would bring calm to ease her wild hurry, did not even occur to her. She could think of nothing but the fearful importance of beginning her search before it was too late, with the disturbing certainty that this long interval of wasted idling had passed over her.

  She must start immediately. Her great search must be made at once. The Fruit Stoners had promised to help her. She took a quick step across the floor, and then another, but instead of going straight towards the door, she found she was moving round the great room, examining the walls and furniture, the tables in particular. Her hand went to her untidy hair, where no ribbon now gathered it together.

  “Well, I declare!” she exclaimed, a sharp feeling of disappointment in her. “There’s not a looking-glass anywhere! Not a single mirror in the whole place!”

  She flung out of the room to find the Fruit Stoners, tidying her wild hair with both hands as best she could. Her feet, at any rate, looked neat, her dress was comely, she had slim calves and pretty ankles.

  “Probably I look awful,” passed through her mind, as she ran down the corridor, “but I can’t help it!”

  Yet, even as she ran, taking quick, excited steps, the sound of ticking accompanied her. It was very close, inside her almost, this faint Tick tock! as of a watch that beat against her heart, as of a small, insistent voic
e. She was aware of it, this tiny voice, no more than that; the anticipatory excitement of finding the Fruit Stoners again and having adventures with them dulled any sense of uneasiness she had felt formerly.

  “There’s lots of time,” she persuaded herself as she ran. “There’s no hurry with them. I only wish I looked better.” Her hand flew to her untidy hair again. “I must get my ribbon back from that dreadful Thief,” and a thrill again passed over her as she thought of him. Her eye glanced down at her short frock then with disapproval. “I’m simply in rags,” occurred to her. “It’s much too short. My knees show! I must see the Tailor about that new dress at once!”

  She raced along breathlessly, her mind filled with darting pictures of her jolly and amusing Fruit Stoners, though it was the Gentleman and the Sailor who seemed to hold the first place. The Gentleman she had made younger now, she remembered, and she had planned a long voyage with the dancing Sailor. Overshadowing them all, however, somehow loomed the bearded figure of the wise Apothecary. It was as though in some way she could not fathom he was the most important of the lot. She realized this, but deliberately put him aside. That, she told herself, could come later.

  “This is a nick,” she assured herself, “and I’m jolly well going to use it while I can!”

  CHAPTER IX

  AND then suddenly she caught sight of them. She had reached the end of the corridor and could see over the railing into the great banqueting hall below. From the top of the stairs where she stood, the gallery ran round the whole length. There, underneath her, stood the whole Ancient Order of Fruit Stoners, every one of them, all talking busily among themselves. They stood in a circle, exactly, she thought, as though they were balanced round the edge of a plate, and she paused a moment and picked them out in turn, for they had not seen her yet. There was a curious distance about them, now more, now less, as though she looked through field-glasses and adjusted the screws that made them come and go. There — the focus was sharp and clear at last.