Unclay

by T. F. Powys

  Mere looked at him sharply. Besides the purchase of the growing grass, unknown to any one—so he supposed—Mere had arranged with Bridle to buy the field too. The property to become his in two months’ time, Bridle’s field going then into his possession, and to his heirs for ever.

  “How did you know,” asked Mr. Mere sternly of Dawe, “that Joe’s field, as well as the growing grass, will soon be mine own?”

  “Because I was nearby, hidden under the churchyard wall, when you made the deal,” answered Dawe, “and I heard Joe Bridle say that he wanted the money to pay off his debts, before he was married.”

  Mere became thoughtful. In his lecher’s heart he had decided to give even more for Susie than the price of Bridle’s field. Why had not the miser asked more? Presently he thought he understood.

  “Ha!” he cried out, “I believe I know now why you wish for that field. You have read the notice in the shop-window that a treasure has been lost, and you think that you know where the treasure is.”

  “No, no,” answered Dawe, in a conciliatory tone and with a sly wink at the company, “’tain’t for no treasure-seeking that I do want the field, but only that I mid bury me child in thik deep pond when thee ’ve done she to death.”

  Dady laughed loudly.

  “Farmer will be a rare one at ’s work,” he called out, “and will thrash finely with his flail, but most like ’twill be only ’is old joints that are shaken when wedding night do come.”

  Every man now clamoured to speak and all spoke at once. Only Solly remained silent. Each man knew Susie. Each saw her now. All that was foul in man was cast upon her. Her breasts were spat upon, and loathsome slime poured out upon her. Each man saw her as his, to ravish brutally. Even Solly saw her as a young lettuce that he was cutting for his dinner, and shook his head nervously.

  Could thoughts and words harm, Susie’s state would indeed have been desperate. Out of the Dodder mud much can be said. All that a beast can do can be done there. Once the game is begun, who can stop its continuance? Only the dead can escape notice.

  Mr. Solly became more and more astonished and surprised at what he heard. He had no idea that a mere bunch of endive, even surrounded by the most luxuriant hog’s dung, could make so much talk. Evidently his friend, Joseph Bridle, had got himself into a difficult position. Joseph had much better have loved a hollow tree than a yellow beet, about whom so many words could be used—so many odd expressions.

  When quiet came again, all began to wonder how it was that Mere should have offered so high a price as a whole field for a girl. He had always—until John Death came into the village—been able to do all he wished with Daisy, for a mere nothing. What had happened to the careful farmer? Why was Susie so much thought of? She was only a girl. Why was all this fuss being made about her?

  Mr. Solly was astonished, too. He had advised his friend to be cautious, but as Susie didn’t look maggot-eaten, he thought she would make a good, wholesome wife. He only expected a simple country wedding to come of it. A few cheap cakes, a barrel of beer, and Daisy Huddy to entertain those guests who might wish to be initiated into wedded doings. All the talk made about a poor root—that must one day rot in the earth—he thought very unseemly.

  In a field of swedes, considered Mr. Solly, all are nearly equal. All grow together and, in the spring, throw up green sprouts. Why should one be regarded as sweeter than the rest, when all look the same? Mr. Solly sighed dismally.

  “A poor man,” he decided, “should never look too long at a spring cabbage.”

  XX

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  Mr. Dady Opens the Window

  When lust is shut up in a small narrow room, it begins to breed. Such a room is the body of a man; lust breeds in him quicker than fleas in a country tavern.

  In a room, from which all pure air is kept out, little lewd devils may spawn and multiply. Sometimes they make mistakes and enter a room where they are not at their ease. When they get into the wrong man, they escape at his ears.

  Mr. Solly thought they were bugs. He scratched his neck and gave his head a shake to get rid of the trouble. He looked suspiciously at Mr. Dillar, who had come nearer to him. Perhaps he was lousy?

  Lewd thoughts, Mr. Solly knew, if they have any encouragement given to them, become lice in the head. He had often seen gentlemen and ladies scratch, and knew what was the matter. The life-history of a louse is an ordinary affair—a simple transformation.

  The parlour became noisy again; mugs clattered, all the company shouted. Solly alone did not shout, but, wishing for some more gin, he was forced to raise his voice a little in order to obtain it.

  After drinking that glass, he fancied that a large louse fell from Mr. Dillar’s head upon the table, and became a female demon called Peg, a succuba. Solly grew frightened; the demon reminded him of Winnie Huddy; she was eating his nuts. Mr. Solly called for more gin.

  Even Mr. Titball was tormented by the frolics of the imp, but, being a faithful servant, it was not for himself that he wanted the fun, but for his master. He, a loyal man, desired all that was best in the world for his lord’s comfort. The imp danced, more appeared, and Mr. Titball wished to provide dancing girls for my lord.

  Besides such a proper desire, Mr. Titball, having been much impressed by all that had been said of Susie, felt that no farmer should take possession of so much beauty, but that my lord’s great curtained bed should have its lawful share.

  He knew that the great of the land deserved sometimes a little relaxation from their more arduous duties. To ride after a fox appeared to Mr. Titball to be the hardest of labours. In all kindness and secrecy he had more than once opened a side door for a young lady, who said that she brought a private message to my lord from his cousin, the Bishop of Portstown.

  Mr. Titball had never asked her to give her name.

  Mr. Titball had a generous mind. He would give all to a lord, and would only wish to keep for himself his picture-book of the homes of England.

  Mr. Dady pursued with his thumb the last fly upon the window; he had killed all the rest. This particular fly did not wish to be killed. It wished to live and multiply. But Dady meant to have him. He followed it with his thumb, up and down the pane. The fly was driven into a corner, and Mr. Dady killed it slowly. Then, hoping that more flies would come in, he opened the window.

  This was an unusual action; no one had ever done so before. Whether winter or summer, the parlour window at the Bullman Arms had always been kept tight shut.

  But now that the window was opened a change came upon the room.

  Those who drank so noisily a few moments before, now became as silent as the grave. The only sound that could be heard was the drip, drip, of a little puddle of spilt beer, falling from the table to the floor.

  Mr. Mere sat in silence, and, instead of thinking what he would do with Susie when he got her for his wife, he began to listen.

  When a sudden silence comes, a man’s ears are opened. He waits for something, for a sound to come to him. He wonders what the sound will be.

  The puddle of beer had run away; the dripping had ceased. Mr. Dady leaned nearer to the window and listened too. The little lewd imps hearkened; something had quieted their obscene frolics. Was it the sweet wind that came from the sea?

  In the common lives of people, one power is always waiting ready to drive out another, in order to rule in its place. There is always a stronger one coming. Each guardian of the temple is slain in his turn, then the victor becomes priest in his stead. Power that conquers power is the order of all our lives, but who is it that dare name the last power to kill? What will He do, when the fatal blow is struck, and He becomes lord of the temple, with no rival to challenge His victory?

  With no power above Him, with no power higher than Himself, what can He do? Will He—in order to complete the conquest—slay Himself? Will He listen to
o, like our poor drunkards—for in all that temple there will be silence? Shall He hear again the many trampling feet of a new generation of men, or will the last enemy destroy Him too? Will God die?…

  Dillar and old Huddy moved nearer to the open window and listened, but it was not the sound of the aspen leaves, softly stirred, that they heard.

  The usual, the ordinary village sounds, were quieted. The new summer that was come to Dodder brooded silently, thinking of her own loveliness. The fruitful sun had warmed the green earth. There was no hedge, no wayside place, that had not drunk a cup of the new life. The winds moved softly over the downs; the daytime flowers slept without dreams.

  Mr. Hayhoe stood, with his wife Priscilla, at the Vicarage door, taking together a loving farewell of the summer day before they retired to rest. A holy love moved in the garden and they—being simple, childlike people—felt its presence. Love moved for a while in the Vicarage garden, and then passed into the churchyard and lingered beside the grave of Priscilla’s child.

  Mr. Hayhoe kissed his wife’s hand. A feeling, he knew not what, brought tears into his eyes. They both looked towards the grave.

  His Will be done.…

  All thought in Dodder was quieted. Still waters covered all motion, and no mental webs were being spun there that bring false hope to man. To grow like the field flowers, what else could man do? To bloom in the summer, to eat of the season’s joy and then drink the dark wine of the sadness of the earth during the fall. To breathe deep again, perhaps, when the winter’s sleep is ended. To awake like a leaf to the new season. To exist as a creature of the earth for a moment, what more should be needed?

  The evening gnats quivered and danced in the warm air, unmindful of danger. The swallows caught them and they heeded not the act. The tiny pigslouse that lived in the grass upon Madder Hill ate its prey. Then it rolled up into a ball to sleep near an anthill, and was eaten itself. A frog, seeking amusement, hopped out of Joe Bridle’s pond, only to find a grave in the cold body of a snake.

  Life and death do not quarrel in the fields. They are always changing places in the slow dance. Alive here and dead there. So the evening is devoured by the night, and the dawn by the day.

  Mr. Hayhoe’s thoughts were hopeful; he looked forward to the morrow, but he was content that the evening should stay longer. By harvest time, at least, if not before, he intended to convert his friend, John. That thought gave him pleasure, and Daisy Huddy was no more a sinner, which pleased him too.

  But Priscilla was sad; she looked longingly towards the churchyard, and prayed that one day she might meet Death there, and compel him to give her back her child.

  XXI

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  Strange Music

  As the years move onward, sounds change. Sounds that used to be listened to in older times are not heard now.

  Climb up Madder Hill on any still, frosty morning, you will hear no horse trotting on the turnpike road; the gentleman who once owned a smart gig and a high-stepping hackney has changed his gear.

  Neither will you be likely to hear the cry of a wild bird; ravens are scarce now. Only a pair of them live upon the cliff near to Mockery Gap; if they fly inland, they are thought to be rooks. The cry of a curlew is not often heard; only a few snipe can be noticed, drumming, over Tadnol moor in the springtime.

  Sounds that have once been common, when they are heard again, are sure to attract attention. They carry back the minds of those that hear them to forgotten times. They awaken feelings that have slept long. Without knowing why, and scarcely knowing what it is that one listens to, one’s thoughts travel backwards into the past.

  One may have heard steady, resounding thuds—mere sounds only, the beating of carpets perhaps, but enough to awaken the remembrance of older times. One shuts one’s eyes and enters a barn. The dust flies, there is a smell of dry straw.

  Two men are at work with flails. One of them—John Sherwood, who wears side-whiskers—wields dexterously a strange weapon, steadily beating a heap of beans—dry and black—that are stacked in the barn. Presently the black stalks are taken up and the beans sifted and placed in sacks. John Sherwood drinks from a stone jar.

  Lost days have been found again; sounds move one backwards. What was now heard through the open window of the Dodder Inn caused the older men who were there to awake as from a deep sleep. Dillar, old Huddy, and Dady recollected freer, gayer times, when a man—if he had the money to spend—could drink at any hour of the day as much as he wished, days when no one tampered with the sun or turned the lock in a tavern door.

  Dady bethought him that no one minded then what a man did. You could kill what you chose—so long as you let the Squire’s game alone—and kill how you liked.

  James Dawe remembered the time when one could hoard to some purpose, when poor people were really poor, and all wanted bread.

  Farmer Mere had his thoughts too, that came from the sound that was heard. A country girl was an easy prey then; no one interfered with those who had money. The law knew its betters. One could do as one chose then. Children’s ages were not inquired into. You could pick up a wench where you wished, and bastards had to keep themselves in those merry days.

  Time changes sin, fashion in vice alters. What is cruelty to one generation, to another is only a compliment. Mr. Mere wished for the old times.

  Those who sit idly themselves and hear some one at work, wonder what the worker is doing. There is jealousy in labour, as well as in love. When a workingman is idle he thinks that all others should be idle too. The mob distrusts anything that all do not share. If another works while they drink, he may be getting something more than they.

  But what was the sound that set all thoughts wandering into the days gone by? The whetting of a scythe.

  A scythe is still used in country places for cutting a path for the corn reaper. But harvest was not yet, and a scythe that has been recently ground can be sharpened in a few minutes. Even this is not done as it used to be, when fourteen mowers might be seen at work in one field, for now no one troubles whether a scythe cuts as it used. The art of scythe-play is lost.

  No one spoke at the Dodder Inn. All listened as if strangely fascinated. The sound continued. Dady, old Huddy and the rest wondered. Each man wished to know who the artist was who sharpened so keenly, taking no rest. Whoever it was knew his weapon.

  Though a countryman hardly ever knows himself, he always knows his own village. When a soft gust of summer wind brings the sound of a laugh to his ears, as he is setting out a few plants, he knows well enough who the merry one is, and names him, as he disentangles the roots of the little cabbages. If the voice of a scolding woman is heard, he will smile and know that it must be Mrs. Briggs—for no one else can use words so plentifully.

  “Damn ’ee for a little toad!” It’s Mr. Huddy who thus reminds Winnie that he is her father—a reality that she sometimes forgets. Old Mrs. Dillar coughs; she spits, too. Her ways are human. All that is heard is known.

  The sound of sharpening came from Card’s cottage.

  “But, surely,” thought Mr. Dady, “John Death’s scythe must be sharp now, sharp enough to cut any meadow grass in Dodder village!” Did the man wish to make the scythe’s edge like a razor? Did he mean to mow Mr. Hayhoe’s lawn?

  Evidently Card’s new tenant had been all his life a mower; the song of the whetstone that he used was truly Catholic. Mr. Titball laid his hand upon his picture-book.

  The sound continued. There was no waiting, no respite, no rest. “The man must needs have a wrist of iron,” thought Mr. Dillar, “to continue so long.”

  But the Bullman Arms was not the only place either where the sharpening could be heard.

  Mr. Hayhoe heard the sound too. He had taken up The Watsons for a few moments after Mrs. Hayhoe had gone to bed, intending to read for a little by the study window. Mr. Hayhoe closed his book
and listened. The sound made a strange music; it became loud, then soft. It grew angry. Stone upon steel, one could almost see the sparks fly; wild fierce rage was in the quick clash—utter destruction. Then, though the sharpening continued, the sound was softened, while around it, in some green meadow, the larks were singing.

  Again there came a steady rhythm, a continuous note, and in this sound Mr. Hayhoe recognized the quick passing of time, and the certainty of man’s end.

  Mr. Hayhoe sighed. His own going would not matter—though he hoped he would not have to lie a-bed too long before making his last journey—but some others had gone too early. There was his favourite—Jane. ’Twas enough to make any man sigh to think of her. Oh! why had she not been permitted to write a few more books! What good titles she could have found, what charming characters!…

  Priscilla had not undressed; the summer airs crept in at the window, and she looked out of it.

  Can a woman ever forget the sweet ways of her child? If only she could see him once more, only to remind her that he had once lived! Death, who had taken him, could he show him again? She would give all—her soul even, her promise of Heaven—to see him once more. Could she but meet Death, how she would court him! She would not mind what she did for his pleasure, so long as she obtained her wish.

  The sound went on.

  Sarah Bridle heard it in bed. A slight cramp in her leg made her think that the limb was broken. She was lying, not in Dodder, but midway between Darfur and Khartoum. She had been left behind in the desert. She was unable to move, the caravan had left her to die, and passed on. They were nearly out of sight. The night was come, the clear, white stars were her only companions. Her master had sold her to a new merchant, who had loaded her with his wares—rich silks of Damascus, the velvet of Tyre. They had loaded her too heavily. Others had drunk before her at the last pool; she could not bear so great a load; she staggered and fell.