by T. F. Powys
He had only three cows now—the down grass would be enough for them until the meadow was cut, and then they could feed there for a while. Somehow he must get money, but that would be easy, and then Susie would be his. Her laughter was everywhere, and at night her eyes shone in the sky. The air he breathed was Susie; whatever he touched was her too.
He passed people in the lane without even seeing them. In the rustle of the wind, in the trees, he heard Susie’s voice, and when he saw her, he was bewitched by love.
At the moment when Mr. Hayhoe was unfastening the gate for Lord Bullman, Joe Bridle—full of his plans for the betterment of his farm—went to roll his meadow. He had but one horse, and this horse he harnessed to the roller. On the way to the field he went by James Dawe’s cottage and saw Susie. She was trying to catch a broody hen that had deserted its eggs. Joseph stopped his horse, and watched her. The hen bustled out into the lane through a hole in the fence, and ran towards Joe. He joined in the chase, and very soon the hen was captured.
Susie allowed him to stroke its feathers, while she held it in her arms as if it were her babe.
The sun shone warmly, and the hen opened and shut its fierce little eyes. Upon the Dodder green there were children laughing, a sheep’s bell tinkled from the down, and a dog barked. Susie began to fondle and to croon over the hen, holding it closer to her breasts. Then she began to talk merrily, gossiping about Dodder.
“Oh!” she cried, “Winnie Huddy met a stranger in the lane this morning, and asked him for a penny. She called him ‘John’—there never was such a naughty girl! She talks to any man she meets, and no wonder, when her sister, Daisy, has a red string tied to her bed, taken from the Bible, and let out of the window!”
Susie smiled coyly and stroked the hen. Joseph Bridle had little to say; he could only look at her. Her girl’s body appeared a lively, a loving grace. He saw, for the first time, the whole of her beauty. Nothing escaped him; she was his dish to love. He breathed deep; before him, and so near that he could have touched her, was this being—a maid, created for his enjoyment. Her hair was a brown gold. She was the darkness and the light of his desire.
Joe Bridle stood silent before her. She began to talk to the hen, chiding it for having left its eggs, and calling it a wicked mother. Then she turned and ran into the garden because her father had called her.
He watched her as she went. Her movements filled his heart with longing. She bore about her the simple seductive beauty that can bite and tear the entrails of a man. To see her made sadness come. Without knowing what she did, she called up storms and dark clouds, hailstones and fire. She waited, asking to be culled. But by whom? Joseph answered the question boldly—himself. No one should touch her, only he.
And why should he not have her as well as another? She was a maid proper to marry, a little young maybe, but eager and loving. Her eyes told him so. She could be trusted to know whom she liked, and a village maiden can be a very faithful creature. Bridle knew that; he also knew that Susie was fond of him. She had once kissed him all of a sudden, when he had least expected it.
Joseph had made no secret of his love. He had told Mr. Hayhoe, who had shaken him strongly by the hand, and wished him all happiness, as if they were to be married the next day. Joe was sure of her. He might live many years with Susie as his loving wife.
In the country, married joy can still be found. Life can be merry and happy where keen winter blasts and the smoke of autumn bonfires keep the devil away. Two straws, blown into a corner, hold together; the dark night keeps them near each other. One never knows when Madder Hill may begin to talk; and when fear creeps in under the stairs, two are better than one.
Joseph also told Mr. Solly that he loved Susie. Mr. Solly only blew his nose hard.
X
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The Name
Joe Bridle led the horse into the field. But he did not begin to roll the meadow at once, he wished first to go and look into the pond. He felt impelled to do so, though he did not know why.
Sometimes a man’s feet behave oddly; they wish to walk, the mind wonders why. For no reason at all, a man will step out of the path, and will pick a flower as if that were what he had meant to do.
Joseph’s pond was in the middle of his field; it was said to have no bottom. In Dodder a story used to be told of a greedy farmer who, in a time of scarcity, kept all his grain from the poor and then, to tantalize the people, drove a wagon-load of wheat into the pond. And neither the wagon nor the horses were ever seen again.
The water in the pond—where there were no lily-leaves—was black. Mournful flowers grew about the edge, and there were places in the pond where large bull-rushes grew. And some said the water smelt strangely.
There was a reason for that, for if any poor creature was lost in the neighbourhood, the country people knew well enough that he might be found—if any one cared to look for him—in Joe Bridle’s pond.
The pond had a curious existence; it tempted, it fascinated. It was said that to drown oneself there gave no pain. One only had to step in, and sink at once. Drowning there was thought to be a pleasure. Little children, in times past, had ventured, and old men. The pond pitied all men’s sorrows, and the relief that it gave was death.
Before Joe Bridle went to the pond, he looked at his horse. The beast trembled. Something had frightened it. Joe patted the horse, and went to the pond.
The day began to darken strangely. Joe stopped and looked back at the horse—for some reason or other he did not care to gaze at once into the pond. The horse looked at him, still frightened. Its eyes begged him to return; then it bowed its head low.
Joe Bridle looked from the horse to a great elm-tree that grew nearby. What was happening to the tree? Though no wind blew, the whole tree bowed towards the pond, as if a great tempest had blown upon it. Above the field certain rooks were flying. The rooks behaved wildly, rushing downward with a fierce sound, then flying off in fear.
Joe Bridle looked into the pond.
Where the waters were black—though near to the edge of the pond—he saw something floating. What was it? The thing looked like thick paper, or parchment, and Joe Bridle could see that there were words written upon it.
Then a strange thing happened to the paper; it began to flame. Though floating upon the water, it was on fire. A marvellous tongue of flame rose from it, golden at first and then scarlet. The paper burned in the water and yet it was not consumed. Joe Bridle knew that he was near a dreadful thing. He might have fled, and yet he did not do so. The parchment, that had the power to burn and yet could not be consumed, held him in his place.
Joe Bridle was not without strength, he had power—love. He was on fire, too. He burnt, and yet was not destroyed. And he alone might take the paper out of the water, without being harmed by it.
Joe Bridle leaned over the pond; he stretched out his hand, and took the paper.
At the moment when he touched it, the tongue of flame that rose from it vanished. Joe Bridle held in his hand only a piece of parchment. As soon as he had touched this, there came a low mutter of thunder. Clouds gathered in the sky and all grew dark.
Though he held the paper in his hand, Joe Bridle dared not look at it, but he looked into the pond, the waters of which had grown very clear.
As Joe Bridle bent over the pond, two dead corpses rose up, but, when he thought he knew their sodden dead faces, the waters thickened and the faces vanished.
Joseph gazed into the sky. That a spring morning that had looked fair should turn so dismal was very strange. But often clouds come unexpectedly, and when they drop suddenly from nowhere and the sun is hid, the country people say that a blight is come.
Joe Bridle held the parchment firmly. He wondered why, but he soon knew. A sudden tempest rising, it seemed, out of the pond, rushed by him and tried to tear the paper away. A few weeks ago—before he
had spoken to Susie—he would have let it go, but now he held tightly to what he had found, for the power upholding him was love. Though a quiet and peace-loving man, he had now the strength and fury of a god.
When the wind grew still, other things happened. Horrid creatures—great pond beasts—newts and vipers, swarmed about him in the darkness. A year-old corpse crawled out of the water and clutched at the paper with foul dripping fingers.
Then the light of many little burning candles shone over the pond, and a lovely nymph, with tangled hair in which water-flowers were entwined, came to Joseph, out of the pond. She begged him to ease her desire, to embrace her. She lay near to him, looking up at him with soft eyes, then suddenly she sprang up and tried to snatch the paper from his hand. Then she vanished.
After the nymph, there came a beautiful naked boy, who knelt down beside the pond, in order to see his own loveliness reflected in the water. He gazed for a while as though ravished by the sight, and then, coming to Joe Bridle and kneeling down again, begged for the paper with soft words, in a strange tongue. He wept and stretched out his hands, but Joe Bridle held the parchment firmly and would not let it go.
Next, a huge toad with splendid glowing eyes, like coals of fire, crept out of the pond and, pressing his great soft body against Bridle’s, tried to force him into the water. The monster was covered with slime and stank foully, but Joe Bridle held the paper and did not move. Love makes a man stubborn; whatever the paper was, Joe Bridle did not mean to let it go.
Joe looked boldly about him. He believed he had a right to keep what he had found.
Soon he heard sounds like dying groans, and from the bottom of the pond there rose up a mass of decayed carrion. What he had seen before was as nothing to this new horror. The pond was changed. It was become a charnel-yard, full of cadavers, all visible. A hideous stench surrounded him. Fleshly corruption, in its most revolting and dreadful forms, clung to him. A snake, crawling out of the body of a child, raised its head and hissed at him; pond newts swarmed over the breasts of a woman who was newly drowned. Fingers, soiled with grave-mould, tried to pluck the paper away, but all in vain—for Joe Bridle would not let it go.
Then the cloud lifted, the pond looked as usual, the sun shone again, and a lark rose up from the green meadow to sing. Joe Bridle felt bolder; he even dared to look at the paper that he held in his hand. It was quite dry, and appeared neither to have been burnt by the fire, nor soiled by the water.
Upon the top of the paper was written a command, and underneath that word two names—
UNCLAY
Susie Dawe
Joseph Bridle
Joseph Bridle read the names, but quickly held the paper away from his eyes, and only just in time. Had he looked longer, he would have been blinded.
The order was signed. Scrawled unevenly below the names, and across the bottom of the parchment, there was the signature. The name twisted like a serpent. Who could see it and live? Joe Bridle saw that the paper was signed, then he shut his eyes tight.
What had he looked at? Something that in the same moment could Unclay a man, let a star fade into nothingness, turn a city into a wilderness, and create a fair garden of life in empty space. A name that could hurl a sun across the firmament, and make an emmet hurry across a lane upon Shelton Heath.
The field faded. Dodder, Madder, the whole world were gone too. Only that name remained.…
Joseph Bridle hid the parchment in his bosom, and returned to his horse. What he had found concerned himself very nearly—and one other. He must keep the paper, for neither Susie nor himself could be harmed while the parchment was his.
Joe Bridle began to roll the field, and completed the labour sooner than he expected. When he had finished he looked at the grass. The grass of the field appeared richer and more green than he had ever known it before, and a sweet scent rose from the meadow.
When Joe Bridle, leaving the roller in the field, entered the lane in order to lead his horse home, he was surprised to see that the sun was nearly setting. How long he had been in the meadow he did not know, but all the time he had spent there had seemed to be but a few moments. He waited, allowing the horse to feed in the lane.
The sun rested—a great golden ball—on the top of Madder Hill. Never had a Dodder evening seemed so lovely! The spring, new-risen from its winter sleep, and yet unspoilt by summer idleness, had awaked singing. Never had Joe Bridle felt a greater desire for life. No air could be sweeter than that which he breathed, blowing from the wide seas over Madder Hill. Scented by the sweet earth and the newly-rolled meadow, the air tasted like honey. The old horse ate the grass gladly. Never had there seemed to be a better prospect for the blessed fruits of the earth to grow. And where better could a man be in the spring than in a country lane in a green land?
All was quiet in the village; there was no human sound. Joe Bridle was content to wait there for ever, watching his horse feed.
But presently he turned very cold. In the Dodder village he had heard a cottage door shut. Some one had come out of John Card’s cottage. Joe Bridle saw this man walking in the lane. He knew who he was. Though he walked in so ordinary a manner, he knew that he was a great king.
A merry one, too, for he borrowed Jackie Dillar’s hoop and trundled it into a ditch, then he chased and caught Winnie Huddy, who had put out her tongue at him.—A king on holiday at Dodder, but being there as an ordinary man, a friend of Mr. Hayhoe’s, and one who hoped to be happy, a king who liked to play. Joe Bridle watched him.
A group of little children surrounded Death; he was telling them a long story. Dairyman Dady came by and tried to drive the children away. “Who wants to be pestered by these little devils?” he said. But John Death invited the children to come near to him; he even took little Jackie in his arms. He laughed as a man would who has cast away a burden and means to live carelessly, forgetting all labour.
Joe Bridle knew him: he was Death.
XI
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A Queer Mistake
A human being can be mocked into madness, as well as into sense.
From what one is told by churchmen, God Almighty does not like to be teased, nor did Sarah Bridle, who had been mocked into believing a rather odd idea.
Country people like oddities; there would be no pleasure for them if all their neighbours were ordinary. They are always ready to forgive those who have caused the trouble; they even approve them. To drop a baby, so that its nose is flattened out is an amusing pastime; when the child grows it will be a subject for laughter. To drive any one into madness is a fine fancy. Every one is pleased. In November, when the rain splashes in the puddles, and the trees shiver, there will be some fun, for the doings of an innocent are always pleasant to tell of.
Perhaps the most entertaining madness in the world is religion. Those who destroy religion will destroy merriment too. It is a crazedness to believe, but also a happy fancy.
Though good cannot come from evil, laughter can. Mrs. Fancy, who had lived in Dodder for many years—though now dead—once shut up her child, while she went to the Inn, in a dark cupboard where a rat lived. When she let the boy out he would only crawl upon the floor. He had escaped his terror by believing himself to be a rat with a long tail.
Sarah Bridle had always been a good girl, and good girls get fat. Having no wickedness to exercise their thoughts, they grow comely, too—and perhaps a little stupid. Sarah believed everything that she was told.
In every village there is some young man who frightens the girls about their bodies. In Dodder there was young Mere, but Sarah would not have heeded him had it not been for her own mother. Mrs. Bridle was a religious woman; she was strict; she believed that the human body is a very wicked thing. From every point of view it looked bad. The breath of life should have been breathed into a deal table. Mrs. Bridle covered up her child, and laced her tight.
> Mrs. Bridle also filled her head with terror. When Sarah’s breasts were like walnuts, her mother bid her beware of them and hide them. “They would not have been there at all,” she said, “had the world been good.”
Sarah believed her mother. She became fearful and tried to prevent herself from growing properly. But Nature, who likes to laugh at such unnatural folly, caused Sarah to grow plumper than ever. This made her more frightened. She thought that her body, being unregenerate, had become deformed, and she looked everywhere to see an animal that resembled herself. About that time Sarah went to a circus, and saw a camel.
The day after going to the circus, her mother sent her into the village to post a letter. It was the summer-time, the meadows were lovely; coloured flowers were everywhere, and the sun shone warm. As Sarah went out of the door, her mother cursed her.
It often happens that a mother’s tender care is transformed into hate. Sarah’s mother was jealous of her child. Though religious, Mrs. Bridle was flat-chested, but she still wanted the men to look at her—the chapel elders. There was one man, Mr. Perrot the blacksmith, who wore side-whiskers and grew the finest pumpkins in all Shelton. But, instead of looking at Mrs. Bridle in chapel, Mr. Perrot looked at Sarah. He looked at her with pleasure, as if she grew in his garden and might one day win a prize at a fête.
Mrs. Bridle sent her daughter off, and hoped that she would come to some harm. Sarah posted her letter, and then she returned by the footpath that crossed a pleasant field.
The path was a sheltered one; high hedges upon either side hid the meadow from sight. In the middle of this field, Sarah met young Farmer Mere.
No one in any country of the world disputes the right of a rich young farmer to do as he chooses. For any girl to have complained about Mr. Mere would have been the height of folly.