Deluge: A Novel of Global Warming

by S. Fowler Wright

  “Have you defended an engineer as well as a murderer—and a pork butcher?” she asked as they stood somewhat breathlessly surveying their completed labour.

  He was pleased by the implication, as men always are at the suggestion of proficiency in an occupation which is not theirs, but answered lightly: “We learn a little of many things in my profession but nothing thoroughly—or at least we did. Some of them come in useful now, but not many.”

  They laid their spoils on the trolley, and being seated upon it, Martin began to propel it forward, using the spear-shaft as a pole for the purpose. As the trolley kept to the rails, they would have traversed the darkness easily enough, even without the help of the lighted lantern. Claire was too tired for speech, but she was conscious of a contentment such as she had not experienced since the first night that she had struggled against the waters. Not since then, till now, had she met with man or woman to whom she could talk as to a comrade, or an understanding equal, and she felt that he was hers if she would, and, perhaps, if she would not, he would still take her. There was a paradoxical pleasure in the thought, and she sank her head on the soft sack and was asleep on the instant.

  Martin looked at her sleeping. Very weary she looked, but very comely also, and very surely desirable. He wondered anew what distance of space, or hazard of adventure, had sent her to him from the empty reach of sea. But for the men that he knew to be wandering near, a nightmare of possibilities, he would have thought of her as the Eve of a lonely Paradise. The mystery of her coming he could at least discover when she woke, for he felt that she would answer with a frankness which she might not have offered in the earlier day. He saw that she had strength and grace very far beyond the average of women, and he concluded that she must have suffered from more than ordinary exhaustion on the previous day for its effect to continue so obviously.

  She woke when the trolley stopped, stretching yawningly as she stepped from it. “I think I could sleep forever,” she said, laughing at herself, “and, oh, I should be so hungry if I were not too thirsty to think of anything except water.”

  The mention of water reminded him of their most urgent necessity. “We have only a little left,” he said, “that is fit to drink. Let us have a meal now, and then you can sleep all afternoon while I fetch some more.”

  She considered this plan, but without enthusiasm. “I shall sleep all right,” she said; “I think it would be difficult for anything to keep me awake much longer. But why not wait till evening, and we would go for the water together?”

  The truth was that the shadow of uncertainty, which is inseparable from every parting under wild and primitive conditions of life, was rendering her unwilling that he should go alone. She remembered what he had told her of the camp that was near the stream. She had another thought, at which she shuddered. Suppose he were away and they came in his absence and found her sleeping: “No,” she said, “I couldn’t sleep here alone. I should be terrified.”

  She spoke lightly, but he saw that she was serious, and was pleased to see it.

  “Very well,” he said, “I can go on moving our goods down the tunnel. I’m not tired, and it will be cooler than in the sun. We’ll go together when it’s dusk. It may be safer then.”

  She noticed the unconscious “our” with a satisfaction akin to his own, though she gave no sign; and it was in one of the rare moods of mutual sympathy that are so seldom and so brief, even among those of an established intimacy, that they ate their meal together.

  When Claire had retired to the hut, Martin worked diligently to remove the remainder of his possessions into the greater secrecy of the recesses that were in the sides of the tunnel. For some distance inward they were fairly dry, more so on one side than the other, and now that he had the use of the trolley he made rapid progress. He purposed to remove all traces of habitation from the outside, at least until he were assured that the unwelcome strangers had left the neighbourhood. Glad though he was of the new companionship which the seas had sent him, he saw well enough that it had closed any possibility of a peaceful or neutral meeting with men of the character they had shown, and that it was an urgent necessity to arrange for flight or hiding. His inclination was to secrete his property and then to wander away until they could return with security. He felt that hiding-places could be found where they would be less easily located, and from which they could escape more readily.

  When he came to survey the carcass of Claire’s successful hunting, his eyes had an expression of humorous uncertainty. Pork was good food enough, but the weather was hot and his appetite for it was limited. They had no means of salting it, and he was somewhat hazy as to the procedure. He had never defended the proprietor of a bacon-curing establishment. Finally he cut out a portion of the loin, which he resolved that they should cook for the evening meal, and suspended the remainder in the damp coolness of the inner tunnel.

  He delayed to rouse her till evening, and when he did so proposed that they should go for the needed water, and leave the preparation of a further meal till their return, to which she agreed very readily.

  They set out at once, each carrying an empty basket, and Martin fastening on the knife which had already proved its utility.

  “Won’t you take the spear also?” she asked doubtfully. She had a feeling of uneasiness about this expedition, such as she had not known when they went out in the morning—a premonition of evil. Perhaps the fellowship of the intervening hours had already brought some sense of responsibility, some loss of freedom, rendering her more susceptible to the suggestion of any outer hostility. Perhaps it was only because they were going in the direction of those whom they did not wish to meet.

  Anyway, the hours of sleep had brought a change of feeling, as they do so frequently, as though the seeds of thought and emotion had matured in the resting mind.

  It was not only that fatigue had left her, and that her feet moved lightly, and her spirits were buoyant, but there was a nervous consciousness of Martin’s nearness, even though he were not in her line of vision, a sense at once of elation and of timidity, a shyness to which she was little used, an acute awareness of the scanty garment that covered her, an instinct of resentment that he should so observe her, and under all a desire to draw his glance, and a disappointment that she was not more sure that she did so.

  From these conflicting feelings there had come a relieved assent at his prompt suggestion of occupation and movement, and then the foreboding doubt to which she would not listen—for she knew that water must be fetched—but which gave its tone to her voice as she asked, “Won’t you take the spear also?” from which he knew that she was troubled.

  He shook his head, but added in explanation: “We shall have the full buckets to handle on our return. It is silence which is most important, and, of course, not to spill them. We must avoid clanking them if we can. But probably I am careful about nothing, and the men I saw may be miles away.”

  It occurred to her that but for her coming he would not have had to take this risk so soon, but it was futile to apologise for that now. She shook herself free from the fear that vexed her. “Right,” she said, “lead the way then, and we must remember not to chatter.”

  They climbed the steep bank and lay for some minutes at the top, looking beneath the hedge before they ventured further.

  The balanced stone was still poised on the top rail of the stile. The rank meadow that sloped down before them was empty of any visible life. Martin considered that there could be no probable reason why the men should move secretly if they were still in the neighbourhood. Far to the right a kestrel hovered in the sky, but that proved nothing. A rabbit, avoiding the thick growth of the neglected meadow, ran along the further side of the hedge. Soon a wood-dove flew overhead and settled on the trees of a little coppice that lay left-hand and beneath them. It seemed a good sign.

  “Come now,” he whispered, but added: “Don’t speak unless you must.” He was still cautious, and remembered how far voices will be carried on silent summer
evening air, and how easily a conversation beginning low may rise to an accustomed level.

  She nodded only in reply. A pleasant sense of adventure was succeeding to the earlier fear now they were moving. They lifted the stone aside and crossed the stile with their buckets in silence.

  Undisturbed, and undisturbing of anything beyond the size of a field-mouse, they went on until they came to the stream they sought.

  It was slight and shallow enough, not more than knee-deep if occasional pools were avoided, but moving briskly and showing a clear bottom. What it may have shown three months earlier, before the earth had cleansed herself from the pollution which stained her, is another matter.

  There were pollard willows along the bank, which was about eight feet above the water at the place at which they reached it, and it fell too steeply for their purpose. They stood for a moment, somewhat screened by the branches, hesitating in which direction to look for an easier slope, when they were arrested by a burst of song from the opposite bank.

  It was the voice of a man who came along a path on the further side. He did not appear to observe them, and a common instinct caused them to stand motionless, trusting to stillness and the intervening branches.

  He came along by the side of the stream till he was almost opposite where they stood, and then climbed over a gate and went off by a field-path which branched away from the water.

  He was very short and very fat. His clothes were soiled and torn. He wore a very dirty, parti-coloured cap. He walked jauntily, considering his weight, but stumbled as he cleared the stile as though he were not over-sober.

  Martin, trained to judge men quickly, wondered whether he had been a jockey, and was now consoling himself for years of abstinence no longer necessary.

  He tried to catch the words of the receding song:

  “When you saw the legs of Sal, you

  Bought her up for half her value.”

  Presumably a mare; and more certainly an ex-jockey. Not formidable, but a man to avoid. The face had shown gross and vicious as he passed them. More serious, he was not the kind to be alone and so merry. He was a sure evidence that there were others about who might be of a different quality.

  Very cautiously they skirted the willowed bank till they found a spot where it shelved down gently to a shallow bog. The opposite bank was a thicket of elderberries and hazels, on which the fruit was already black, and the nuts were ripening.

  They sat down on the bank-side, and Claire proposed that they should stay there till the dusk came. It seemed safer than to venture again across the open fields. It was strange to think how disquieting had become the sight of a fellowman.

  Martin agreed, but reminded her that they had intended to cook a meal on their return. She did not mind that. Even the suggestion of the waiting pork did not move her. She was vaguely frightened, and did not want her Eden to be disturbed by strangers.

  Martin, on the other hand, felt some relief, which he told himself was illogical. The man meant others, who might be very different. Still, the fact stood that the one they had seen was contemptible. He felt an increased assurance of his capacity to avoid them or to deal with them successfully if a collision should occur. The man had the effect of farce where he had looked for tragedy. But Claire was right all the same, and it was best to wait. Surely they were safe among the bushes from any probable oversight.

  Safe or not, it was very pleasant as the heat decreased. The sun was setting, and it was almost cool by the waterside in the shade of the branches.

  They began to talk very quietly. After a few abortive suggestions Martin made a direct attack upon his companion’s reticence.

  “When I saw you first I was inclined to wonder whether the coming of Aphrodite might not be a recurrent incident in the world’s history, but the bathing-dress and a sufficient knowledge of English—and a disposition to understudy Diana rather than the more amorous goddess—is it rude to wonder—or to ask?”

  She answered slowly: “No, it’s quite natural. I might have told you before.” She smiled slightly. “If I don’t introduce myself no one else will. I know who you are, so it’s only fair. But how shall I begin? My name is Claire. Do you want to know that I took a B.A. at Newnham? I went through the war, which mattered so much once, as a motor driver. I once had a scratch on the arm from a shrapnel bullet, of which I think I was rather proud, but it is becoming increasingly hard to find. I was twenty-nine last April, which usually means thirty—or more. I have had a baby which died. I had an invalid husband who cannot now be living. I once nearly swam the Channel—but not quite. Finally, I swam here.”

  She paused, and they were both silent, and so still that a vole landed on the narrow edge beneath their feet and commenced a careful toilet without observing their presence. Her words had called up memories of so many things that were best forgotten. Or were they? It was hard to tell.

  After a time she resumed in a different tone. “But I know I didn’t answer your question. What you want to know is where I came from and why, and what I’ve been doing for the last few months, and what I can tell you of any other land which is still above the water. Well, there is not much to tell. This is the largest space of dry land I’ve seen since the flood came, and it’s not very large as far as I know yet.

  “I lived on one island for the first few weeks with two men, and left it because I was rather tired of their company.”

  She glanced at him as she said it, but he was looking at the water and gave no sign of his thoughts. She went on quickly.

  “At least, I’m not sure whether I left it or it left me. We seemed to have similar intentions just about the same time. Anyway, we left each other. I lived on another island with an old man and his daughter for about the same time. I found it dull, and came here where things seem livelier. But I don’t intend to stay six weeks anywhere again. It might grow into a habit too strong to break. I shall go on in the morning.”

  Martin did not think her serious, but he read the challenge in her words, and realised that the jest might be earnest if he took it too casually.

  “I don’t think you will,” he said quietly, with eyes that her own avoided, “and I shall be sorry if you do. I have been very lonely. And,” he added more lightly, “you might go further and fare worse, you know. Did the jockey please you so greatly?”

  “Beast,” she said curtly, startling him for an instant, till he realised that the brief epithet was not for him, and then they were silent for a space again. Neither of them was so inexperienced of life as to be blind to the road which opened before them, or unaware of what it held. Neither was of the kind which gives way lightly to a casual passion. Both were aware of an attraction that drew them strongly together. Both, from different standpoints, were afraid of impulsive action. The old restraints were broken down, the old safeguards were swept away, and they knew not what, if anything, would succeed them. Caution that was half a fear lest he should act with impulsive folly, and half a fear lest over-haste might defeat his purpose to win her, controlled his words, and held back the hand that pressed the ground behind her. Only he was fixed in mind that she should not leave him. Only, perhaps, would he have learnt the strength of his own purpose had she attempted to do so.

  Pride, on her part, held her to an equal reticence. Not at any price should he have cause to think, through a glance or word, that she was free to the familiarity of a day’s acquaintance, or willing to mate with the first man to whom the chance of her wandering might bring her. She realised that he knew nothing of her, but by the account which she herself had given, and that only by her own reactions to him could she give evidence of her veracity. The restraints of law and of a thousand hounding conventions were gone, it might be, forever, but the mean of human nature was unaltered, and each of those who still lived would continue its demonstration. Aeon pass; dynasties fall, and races perish; land and water change as the earth’s surface shrinks or wrinkles; the earth swings outward into glacial space and all life ceases, except in frozen seas of
deep-sea slime; the call of her sister planets woos her sunward again, and life awakens in new forms with an indomitable vitality; invincible in defeat, life goes forward, as it seems, with faith inflexible toward an eternity of disasters, of which there is no one that knows a beginning or can forecast an ending; and through it all there is that which is changeless—Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.

  But Claire and Martin did not think of life, because they were living—living the supreme conception of the earth’s Creator, which is aeon old and as unborn as tomorrow.

  So they sat silent, while the shadows lengthened, in no haste to move, and feeling an easeful security in the quiet cover of the surrounding thickets, and then—there was a movement behind, and Martin looked round quickly. He saw a huge form towering over them. He saw a swarthy brutal face, coarse and fleshy, with matted hair overhanging it, and a black stubble of beard. He saw eyes that were murderous, but without rage. They were eyes that enjoyed murder. He saw a massive, hairy arm that grasped a sledgehammer halfway up the handle, making it look small and light for his purpose.

  He saw all this in an instant, for as he saw it the sledge was raised to strike him. A second later, had he stayed or had he tried to rise, his life would have ended; but on the impulse of his fear he slipped down the bank, and the blow missed.

  It was that second later, and no more, that Claire had seen his movement and would have followed—to find the giant’s hand was in her hair, and that she was caught beyond escaping. Yet she struggled for a moment, and may have saved Martin’s life in the action, for her captor, having got his grip firmly, turned his attention from her, and with an oath of anger flung the heavy sledge after him just as he was gaining the bushes on the other side of the little stream. Gripped by the hair as she was, she had seized the arm that held her in her raised hands, and though she had no strength to win her freedom, she had so shaken his balance that the throw went wide—wide enough, at least, to pass over Martin’s shoulder, missing the head at which it was aimed, and at the same moment Martin had disappeared in the protecting shelter.