“We are the children of the whispering night, Who live eternally in dreadful fright Of stories told us in the grey twilight By—nurserymaids!
We are the children of a winter’s day; Under our breath we chant this mournful lay; We dance with phantoms and with shadows play, And have no rest.
We have no joy in any children’s game, For happiness to us is but a name, Since Terror kissed us with his lips of flame In wicked jest.
We hear the little voices in the wind Singing of freedom we may never find, Victims of fate so cruelly unkind, We are unblest.
We hear the little footsteps in the rain Running to help us, though they run in vain, Tapping in hundreds on the window-pane In vain behest.
[67] We are the children of the whispering night, Who dwell unrescued in eternal fright Of stories told us in the dim twilight By—nurserymaids!”
The plaintive song and the dance ceased together, and before Jimbo could find any words to clothe even one of the thoughts that crowded through his mind, he saw them moving towards a door he had not hitherto noticed on the other side of the room. A moment later they had opened it and passed out, sedate, mournful, unhurried; and the boy found that in some way he could not understand the light had gone with them, and he was standing with his back against the wall in almost total darkness.
Once out of the room, no sound followed them, and he crossed over and tried the handle of the door. It was locked. Then he went back and tried the other door; that, too, was locked. He was shut in. There was no longer any doubt as to the Figure’s intentions; he was a prisoner, trapped like an animal in a cage.
The only thought in his mind just then was an intense desire for freedom. Whatever happened he must escape. He crossed the floor to the only window in the room; it was without blinds, and he looked out. But instantly he recoiled with a fresh and overpowering sense of helplessness, for it was three storeys from the ground, and down below in the shadows he saw a paved courtyard that rendered jumping utterly out of the question.
He stood for a long time, fighting down the tears, and staring as if his heart would break at the field and trees beyond. A high wall enclosed the yard, but beyond that was freedom and open space. Feelings of loneliness and helplessness, terror and dismay overwhelmed him. His eyes burned and smarted, yet, strange to say, the tears now refused to come and bring him relief. He could only stand there with his elbows on the window-sill, and watch the outline of the trees and hedges grow clearer and clearer as the light drew across the sky, and the moment of sunrise came close.
But when at last he turned back into the room, he saw that he was no longer alone. Crouching against the opposite wall there was a hooded figure steadily watching him.
CHAPTER VI: HIS COMPANION IN PRISON
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SHOCKS OF TERROR, AS THEY increase in number, apparently lessen in effect; the repeated calls made upon Jimbo’s soul by the emotions of fear and astonishment had numbed it; otherwise the knowledge that he was locked in the room with this mysterious creature beyond all possibility of escape must have frightened him, as the saying is, out of his skin.
As it was, however, he kept his head in a wonderful manner, and simply stared at the silent intruder as hard as ever he could stare. How in the world it got in was the principal thought in his mind, and after that: what in the world was it?
The dawn must have come very swiftly, or else he had been staring longer than he knew, for just then the sun topped the edge of the world and the window-sill simultaneously, and sent a welcome ray of sunshine into the dingy room. It turned the grey light to silver, and fell full upon the huddled figure crouching against the opposite wall. Jimbo caught his breath, and stared harder than ever.
It was a human figure, the figure, apparently, of a man, sitting crumpled up in a very uncomfortable sort of position on his haunches. It sat perfectly still. A black cloak, with loose sleeves, and a cowl or hood that completely concealed the face, covered it from head to foot. The material of the cloak could not have been very thick, for inside the hood he caught the gleam of eyes as they roamed about the room and followed his movements. But for this glitter of the moving eyes it might have been a figure carved in wood. Was it going to sit there for ever watching him? At first he was afraid it was going to speak; then he was afraid it wasn’t. It might rise suddenly and come towards him; yet the thought that it would not move at all was worse still.
In this way the two faced each other for several minutes until, just as the position was becoming simply unbearable, a low whisper ran round the room: “At last! Oh! I’ve found him at last!” Jimbo was not quite sure of the words, though it was certainly a human voice that had spoken; but, the suspense once broken, the boy could not stand it any longer, and with a rush of desperate courage he found his voice—a very husky one—and moved a step forward.
“Who are you, please, and how did you get in?” he ventured with a great effort.
Then he fell back against the wall, amazed at his own daring, and waited with tightly-clenched fists for an answer. But he had not to wait very long, for almost immediately the figure rose awkwardly to its feet, and came over to where he stood. Its manner of moving may best be described as shuffling; and it stretched in front of it a long cloaked arm, on which the sleeve hung, he thought, like clothes on a washing line.
He breathed hard, and waited. Like many other people with strong wills and sensitive nerves, Jimbo was both brave and a coward: he hoped nothing horrid was going to happen, but he was quite ready if it should. Yet, now that the actual moment had come, he had no particular fear, and when he felt the touch of the hand on his shoulder, the words sprang naturally to his lips with a little trembling laugh, more of wonder perhaps than anything else.
“You do look a horrid ... brute,” he was going to say, but at the last moment he changed it to “thing,” for, with the true intuition of a child, he recognised that the creature inside the cloak was a kind creature and well disposed towards him. “But how did you get in?” he added, looking up bravely into the black visage, “because the doors are both locked on the outside, and I couldn’t get out?”
By way of reply the figure shuffled to one side, and, taking the hand from his shoulder, pointed silently to a trap-door in the floor behind him. As he looked, he saw it was being shut down stealthily by some one beneath.
“Hush!” whispered the figure, almost inaudibly. “He’s watching!”
“Who’s watching?” he cried, curiosity taking the place of every other emotion. “I want to see.” He ran forward to the spot where the trap-door now lay flush with the floor, but, before he had gone two steps, the black arms shot out and caught him. He turned, struggling, and in the scuffle that followed the cloak shrouding the figure became disarranged; the hood dropped from the face, and he found himself looking straight into the eyes, not of a man, but of a woman!
“It’s you!” he cried, “YOU—!“
A shock ran right through his body from his head to his feet, like a current of electricity, and he caught his breath as though he had been struck. For one brief instant the sinister face of some one who had terrified him in the past came back vividly to his mind, and he shrank away in terror. But it was only for an instant, the twentieth part of an instant. Immediately, before he could even remember the name, recognition passed into darkness and his memory shut down with a snap. He was staring into the face of an utter stranger, about whom he knew nothing and had no feelings particularly one way or another.
“I thought I knew you,” he gasped, “but I’ve forgotten you again—and I thought you were going to be a man, too.”
“Jimbo!” cried the other, and in her voice was such unmistakable tenderness and yearning that the boy knew at once beyond doubt that she was his friend, “Jimbo!”
She knelt down on the floor beside him, so that her face was on a level with his, and then opened both her arms to him. But though Jimbo was glad to have found a friend who was going to help him, he felt no particular desi
re to be embraced, and he stood obstinately where he was with his back to the window.
The morning sunshine fell upon her features and touched the thick coils of her hair with glory. It was not, strictly speaking, a pretty face, but the look of real human tenderness there was very welcome and comforting, and in the kind brown eyes there shone a strange light that was not merely the reflection of the sunlight. The boy felt his heart warm to her as he looked, but her expression puzzled him, and he would not accept the invitation of her arms.
“Won’t you come to me?” she said, her arms still outstretched.
“I want to know who you are, and what I’m doing here,” he said. “I feel so funny—so old and so young—and all mixed up. I can’t make out who I am a bit. What’s that funny name you call me?”
“Jimbo is your name,” she said softly.
“Then what’s your name?” he asked quickly.
“My name,” she repeated slowly after a pause, “is not—as nice as yours. Besides, you need not know my name—you might dislike it.”
“But I must have something to call you,” he persisted.
“But if I told you, and you disliked the name, you might dislike me too,” she said, still hesitating.
Jimbo saw the expression of sadness in her eyes, and it won his confidence though he hardly knew why. He came up closer to her and put his puzzled little face next to hers.
“I like you very much already,” he whispered, “and if your name is a horrid one I’ll change it for you at once. Please tell me what it is.”
She drew the boy to her and gave him a little hug, and he did not resist. For a long time she did not answer. He felt vaguely that something of dreadful importance hung about this revelation of her name. He repeated his question, and at length she replied, speaking in a very low voice, and with her eyes fixed intently upon his face.
“My name,” she said, “is Ethel Lake.”
“Ethel Lake,” he repeated after her. The words sounded somehow familiar to him; surely he had heard that name before. Were not the words associated with something in his past that had been unpleasant? A curious sinking sensation came over him as he heard them.
His companion watched him intently while he repeated the words over to himself several times, as if to make sure he had got them right. There was a moment’s hesitation as he slowly went over them once again. Then he turned to her, laughing.
“I like your name, Ethel Lake,” he said. “It’s a nice name—Miss—Miss——” Again he hesitated, while a little warning tremor ran through his mind, and he wondered for an instant why he said “Miss.” But it passed as suddenly as it had come, and he finished the sentence—"Miss Lake, I shall call you.” He stared into her eyes as he said it.
“Then you don’t remember me at all?” she cried, with a sigh of intense relief. “You’ve quite forgotten?”
“I never saw you before, did I? How can I remember you? I don’t remember any of the things I’ve forgotten. Are you one of them?”
For reply she caught him to her breast and kissed him. “You precious little boy!” she said. “I’m so glad, oh, so glad!”
“But do you remember me?” he asked, sorely puzzled. “Who am I? Haven’t I been born yet, or something funny like that?”
“If you don’t remember me,” said the other, her face happy with smiles that had evidently come only just in time to prevent tears, “there’s not much good telling you who you are. But your name, if you really want to know, is——” She hesitated a moment.
“Be quick, Eth—Miss Lake, or you’ll forget it again.”
She laughed rather bitterly. “Oh, I never forget. I can’t!” she said. “I wish I could. Your name is James Stone, and Jimbo is ‘short’ for James. Now you know.”
She might just as well have said Bill Sykes for all the boy knew or remembered.
“What a silly name!” he laughed. “But it can’t be my real name, or I should know it. I never heard it before.” After a moment he added, “Am I an old man? I feel just like one. I suppose I’m grown up—grown up so fast that I’ve forgotten what came before——”
“You’re not grown up, dear, at least, not exactly——” She glanced down at his alpaca knickerbockers and brown stockings; and as he followed her eyes and saw the dirty buttoned-boots there came into his mind some dim memory of where he had last put them on, and of some one who had helped him. But it all passed like a swift meteor across the dark night of his forgetfulness and was lost in mist.
“You mustn’t judge by these silly clothes,” he laughed. “I shall change them as soon as I get—as soon as I can find——” He stopped short. No words came. A feeling of utter loneliness and despair swept suddenly over him, drenching him from head to foot. He felt lost and friendless, naked, homeless, cold. He was ever on the brink of regaining a whole lot of knowledge and experience that he had known once long ago, ever so long ago, but it always kept just out of his reach. He glanced at Miss Lake, feeling that she was his only possible comfort in a terrible situation. She met his look and drew him tenderly towards her.
“Now, listen to me,” she said gently, “I’ve something to tell you—about myself.”
He was all attention in a minute.
“I am a discharged governess,” she began, holding her breath when once the words were out.
“Discharged!” he repeated vaguely. “What’s that? What for?”
“For frightening a child. I told a little boy awful stories that weren’t true. They terrified him so much that I was sent away. That’s why I’m here now. It’s my punishment. I am a prisoner here until I can find him—and help him to escape——”
“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed quickly, as though remembering something. But it passed, and he looked up at her half-bored, half-politely. “Escape from what?” he asked.
“From here. This is the Empty House I told the stories about; and you are the little boy I frightened. Now, at last, I’ve found you, and am going to save you.” She paused, watching him with eyes that never left his face for an instant.
Jimbo was delighted to hear he was going to be rescued, but he felt no interest at all in her story of having frightened a little boy, who was himself. He thought it was very nice of her to take so much trouble, and he told her so, and when he went up and kissed her and thanked her, he saw to his surprise that she was crying. For the life of him he could not understand why a discharged governess whom he met, apparently, for the first time in the Empty House, should weep over him and show him so much affection. But he could think of nothing to say, so he just waited till she had finished.
“You see, if I can save you,” she said between her sobs, “it will be all right again, and I shall be forgiven, and shall be able to escape with you. I want you to escape, so that you can get back to life again.”
“Oh, then I’m dead, am I?”
“Not exactly dead,” she said, drying her eyes with the corner of her black hood. “You’ve had a funny accident, you know. If your body gets all right, so that you can go back and live in it again, then you’re not dead. But if it’s so badly injured that you can’t work in it any more, then you are dead, and will have to stay dead. You’re still joined to the body in a fashion, you see.”
He stared and listened, not understanding much. It all bored him. She talked without explaining, he thought. An immense sponge had passed over the slate of the past and wiped it clean beyond recall. He was utterly perplexed.
“How funny you are!” he said vaguely, thinking more of her tears than her explanations.
“Water won’t stay in a cracked bottle,” she went on, “and you can’t stay in a broken body. But they’re trying to mend it now, and if we can escape in time you can be an ordinary, happy little boy in the world again.”
“Then are you dead, too?” he asked, “or nearly dead?”
“I am out of my body, like you,” she answered evasively, after a moment’s pause.
He was still looking at her in a dazed sort of way, w
hen she suddenly sprang to her feet and let the hood drop back over her face.
“Hush!” she whispered, “he’s listening again.”
At the same moment a sound came from beneath the floor on the other side of the room, and Jimbo saw the trap-door being slowly raised above the level of the floor.
“Your number is 102,” said a voice that sounded like the rushing of a river.
Instantly the trap-door dropped again, and he heard heavy steps rumbling away into the interior of the house. He looked at his companion and saw her terrified face as she lifted her hood.
“He always blunders along like that,” she whispered, bending her head on one side to listen. “He can’t see properly in the daylight. He hates sunshine, and usually only goes out after dark.” She was white and trembling.
“Is that the person who brought me in here this morning at such a frightful pace?” he asked, bewildered.
She nodded. “He wanted to get in before it was light, so that you couldn’t see his face.”
“Is he such a fright?” asked the boy, beginning to share her evident feeling of horror.
“He is Fright!” she said in an awed whisper. “But never talk about him again unless you can’t help it; he always knows when he’s being talked about, and he likes it, because it gives him more power.”
Jimbo only stared at her without comprehending. Then his mind jumped to something else he wanted badly to have explained, and he asked her about his number, and why he was called No. 102.
“Oh, that’s easier,” she said, “102 is your number among the Frightened Children; there are 101 of them, and you are the last arrival. Haven’t you seen them yet? It is also the temperature of your broken little body lying on the bed in the night nursery at home,” she added, though he hardly caught her words, so low were they spoken.
The Algernon Blackwood Collection Page 33