The Algernon Blackwood Collection

by Algernon Blackwood

  He stood a moment, shaking the extras of the night from hair and clothing, then laughed with a sound like running water as the birds swooped down and carried the straws and twigs away with a great business of wings. Next, glancing up at the open windows of the house, he started forward with a light but steady step. “They will not be surprised,” he said, “for they have always believed in me. They knew that some day I should come, and in the twinkling of an eye!” He paused and chuckled in his beard. “I’m not the one thing they’re expecting, but I’m next door to it, and I can show them how to look at any rate.”

  And he began softly humming the words of a little song he had evidently made up himself, and therefore liked immensely. He neared the walls; the sunrise tipped a happy, glorious face; he disappeared from view as though he had melted through the old grey stone. And a flight of swallows, driven by the fresh dawn wind, passed high overhead across the heavens, leading the night away. They swung to the rhythm of his little song:

  My secret’s in the wind and open sky,

  There is no longer any Time—to lose;

  The world is young with laughter; we can fly

  Among the imprisoned hours as we choose.

  The rushing minutes pause; an unused day

  Breaks into dawn and cheats the tired sun;

  The birds are singing. Hark! Come out and play!

  There is no hurry! Life has just begun!

  THE EXTRA DAY

  ..................

  BEHIND TIME

  I

  THE DAY BROKE. IT BROKE literally. The sky gave way and burst asunder, scattering floods of radiant sunshine. This was the feeling in Uncle Felix’s heart as he came downstairs to breakfast in the schoolroom. A sensation of feathery lightness was in him, of speed as well: he could rise above every obstacle in the world, only—there were no obstacles in the world to rise above. Boredom, despair, and pessimism, he suddenly realised, meant deficiency of energy merely. “Birds can rise above everything—and so can I!"—as though he possessed a robin’s normal temperature of 110 degrees!

  Although it was Sunday morning, and a dark suit was his usual custom, he had slipped into flannels and a comfortable low collar, without thinking about it one way or the other. “It’s a jolly day,” he hummed to himself, “and I’m alive. We must do all kinds of things—everything! It’s all one thing really!” It seemed there was a new, uplifting sense of joy in merely being alive. He repeated the word again and again—"alive, alive, alive!” Of course a robin sang: it was the natural thing to do.

  He looked out of the window while dressing, and caught the startling impression that this life emanated from the world of familiar trees and grass and flowers spread out before his eyes. Everything was singing. Beauty had dropped down upon the earth; the earth, moreover, knew that she was beautiful—she was obviously enjoying herself, both as a whole and in every tiniest nook and corner of her gigantic being. Yet without undue surprise he noted this; the marvel was there as always, but he did not pause to say, “How marvellous!” It was as natural as breathing, and as easily accepted. He was always breathing, but he never stopped and thought, “Good Lord, I’m breathing! How dreadful if it stopped!” He simply went on breathing. And so, with the beauty of this radiant morning, it never occurred to him “This will not last, the sun will set, the shadows fall, the marvel pass and die.” That this particular day could end did not even suggest itself.

  On his way down the passage, Judy and Tim came dancing from their rooms to meet him. They, too, were dressed in their everyday-adventure things, no special sign of Sunday anywhere about them—slipped into their summery clothing as naturally as birds and flowers grow into the bright and feathery stuff that covers them. This notion struck him, but faintly; it was not a definite thought. He might as well have noticed, “Ah, the sky is dressed in light, or mist! The wind blows it into folds and creases!” Yet the notion did strike him with its little dream-like hammer, because with it came a second tiny blow, producing, it seemed, a soft blaze of light behind his eyes somewhere: “I’ve recovered the childhood sense of reality, the vivid certainty, the knowledge!… Somebody’s coming…. Somebody’s here—hiding still, perhaps, yet nearer…” It flashed like a gold-fish in some crystal summer fountain… and was gone again.

  In the passage Judy touched his hand, and said confidingly, “You will take me to the end of the world to-day, Uncle.”

  It was true and possible. No special preparation was required for any journey whatsoever. They were already prepared for anything—like birds. And some one, it seemed, had taken his name away!

  “We’ll do everything at once,” said Tim, with the utmost assurance in tone and manner.

  “Of course,” was his obvious and natural reply to each, no explanations or conditions necessary. Things would happen of themselves, spontaneously. There was only one thing to do! “We’re alive,” he added. They just looked at him as he said it, then pulled him down the passage a little faster than before. Yet the way they ran dancing along that oil-cloth passage held something of the joy and confidence with which birds launch themselves into flight across the earth. There was this sense of spontaneous excitement and delight about.

  “He’s here already,” Judy whispered, as they neared the breakfast room.

  “I can feel it.”

  “Came in while we were asleep,” her brother added. “I know it,” and he clapped his hands.

  “At dawn, yes,” agreed Uncle Felix, saying it on the spur of the moment. He was perplexed a little, perhaps, but did not hesitate. He had not quite the assurance of the others. He meant to let himself go, however.

  There was not the slightest doubt or question anywhere; they believed because they knew; what they had expected for so long had happened. The Stranger in the Tea-cup had arrived at last. They went down the long corridor of the Old Mill House, every window open to the sunshine that came pouring in. The very walls seemed made of transparent, shining paper. The world came flowing in. A happiness of the glowing earth sang in their veins. At the door they paused a second.

  “I know exactly who he is,” breathed Judy softly.

  “I know what he looks like,” whispered Tim.

  “There was never time to see him properly before,” said Uncle Felix.

  “Things went by so fast. He whizzed and vanished. But now—of course-”

  They pushed the door open and went in.

  Breakfast was already laid upon the shining cloth; hot dishes steamed; there were flowers upon the table, and climbing roses peeped in round the grey walls of sun-baked stone. A bird or two hopped carelessly upon the window-sill, and a smell of earth and leaves was in the air. Sunshine, colour, and perfume filled the room to overflowing, yet not so full that there was not ample space for the “somebody” who had brought them. For somebody certainly was there—some one whom the children, moreover, took absolutely for granted.

  There had been surprise outside the door, but there was none when they were in. Something like a dream, it seemed, this absence of astonishment, though, of course, no one took it in that way. For, at first, no one spoke at all. The children went to their places, lifting the covers to see what there was to eat. They did the normal, natural thing; eyed and sniffed the porridge, cream, brown sugar, and especially approved the dish of comfortable, fat poached eggs on toast. They were satisfied with what they saw; everything was as it ought to be—plentiful, available, on hand. There was enough for everybody.

  But Uncle Felix paused a moment just inside the open door, and stared; he looked about him as though the incredible thing had really happened at last. A rapt expression passed over his face, and his eyes seemed fixed upon something radiant that hung upon the air. He sighed, and caught his breath. His heart grew amazingly light within him. Every thought and feeling that made up his personality—so it felt, at least—had wings of silver tipped with golden fire.

  “At last!” he murmured softly to himself, “at last!”

  He moved forward sl
owly into the room, his eyes still fixed on vacancy. The face showed exquisite delight, but the lips were otherwise dumb. He looked as if he had caught a glimpse of something he could not utter.

  “Porridge, please, Uncle,” he heard a voice saying, as some one put a large silver spoon into his hand. “I like the hard lumps.” And another voice added, “I like the soupy, slippery stuff, please.” He pulled himself together with an effort.

  “Ah,” he mumbled, peeping from the dishes at the children’s faces, “the tea has stopped turning in the cup at last. He’s come up to the surface.”

  And they turned and looked at him, but without the least surprise again; it was perfectly natural, it seemed, that there should be this Presence in the room; their Uncle’s remark was neither here nor there. He had a right to express his own ideas in his own way if he wanted to. Their own remarks outside the door they had apparently forgotten. That, indeed, was already a very long time ago now. In the full bliss of realisation, anticipation was naturally not remembered. The excitement in the passage belonged to some dim Yesterday—almost when they were little.

  They began immediately to talk at the Stranger in the room.

  “I didn’t hear anybody come,” remarked Tim, as he mixed cream and demerara sugar inside an artificial pool of porridge, “but it’s all the same—now. Our Somebody’s here all right.” And then, between gulps, he added, “The swallows laid an awful lot of eggs in the night, I think.”

  “On tiptoe just at dawn,” remarked Judy casually, following her own train of thought, and intent upon chasing a slippery poached egg round and round her plate at the same time. “The birds were awake, of course.”

  The birds! As she said it, a memory of some faint, exquisite dream, of years and years ago it seemed, fled also on tiptoe through the bright, still air, and through three listening hearts as well. The robin, the swallows, and the up-and-under bird made secret signs and vanished.

  “They know everything first, of course,” said Uncle Felix aloud;

  “they’re up so early, aren’t they?” To himself he said, “I’m dreaming!

  This is a dream!” his reason still fluttering a little before it died.

  But he kept his secret about the robin tightly in its hiding-place.

  “Before they’ve happened—really,” Tim mentioned. “They do a thing to-morrow long before to-morrow’s come.” He knew something the others could not possibly know.

  “Everything comes from the air, you see,” advanced Judy, secure in the memory of her private morning interview. “But it can disappear under—underneath when it wants to.”

  “Or into a hole,” agreed Tim.

  And somebody in that breakfast-room, somebody besides themselves, heard every word they spoke, listened attentively, and understood the meanings they thought they hid so cleverly. They knew, moreover, that he did so.

  “Let’s pretend,” Tim suddenly exclaimed, catching his sister’s eye just as it was wandering into the pot of home-made marmalade.

  “All right,” she said at once, “same as usual, I suppose?”

  Tim nodded, glancing across the table. “Sitting next to you, Uncle"—he pointed to the unoccupied chair and unused plate—"in that empty place.”

  “Thank you,” murmured the man, still hovering between reality and dream. He said it shyly. It was all too marvellous to ask questions about, he felt.

  “It’s a lovely morning,” continued Judy politely, smiling at the empty place. “Will you have tea and coffee, or milkhotwaterandsugar?” She listened attentively for the answer, the smile of a duchess on her rosy face, then bowed and handed a lump of sugar to Tim, who set it carefully in the middle of the plate.

  “Butter or honey?” inquired the boy, “or butter and honey?” He, too, waited for the inaudible reply, then asked his Uncle to pass the pot of honey and the butter-dish. The Stranger, apparently, liked sweet things best—at any rate, natural things.

  They went on with their breakfast then, eating as much as ever they could hold, talking about everything in the world as usual, and occasionally bowing to the empty chair, addressing remarks to it, and listening to—answers! Sometimes they passed things, too—another lump of sugar, more drops of honey, a thick blob of clotted cream as well. It was obvious to them that somebody occupied that chair, so real, indeed, that Uncle Felix found himself passing things and making observations about the weather and even arranging a few crumbs of bread in a row beside the other delicacies. It was the right thing to do evidently; acting spontaneously, he had performed an inspired action. And the odd thing was that the food, lying in the blaze of sunlight on the plate, slowly underwent a change: the sugar got smaller in size, the honey-drops diminished, the blob of cream lost its first circumference, and even the bread-crumbs seemed to dwindle visibly.

  “It’s very hot this morning,” said Judy after a bit. “The sun’s hungrier than usual,” and she pushed the plate into the shade. But it was clear that she referred to some one other than the sun, although the sun belonged to what was going on. “Thirsty, too,” she added, “although there are bucketsful of dew about.”

  “And extra bright into the bargain,” declared Tim. “I love shiny stuff like that to wear and dress in. It fits so easily—no bothering buttons.”

  “And doesn’t wear out or stain, does it?” put in Uncle Felix, saying the first thing that came into his head—and again behaving in the appropriate, spontaneous manner. It was clear that the Stranger—to them, at least—was clothed in the gold and silver of the brilliant morning. There was a delicate perfume, too, as of wild flowers and sweet little roadside blossoms. The very air of the room was charged with some living light and beauty brought by the invisible guest. It was passing wonderful. The invading Presence seemed all about them like a spreading fire of loveliness and joy—yet natural as sunshine.

  Then, suddenly, Tim sprang up from his chair, and ran to the empty seat. His face shone with keen and eager expectancy, but wore a touch of shyness too.

  “I want to be like you,” he said in a hushed voice that had all the yearning of childhood breaking through it. “Please put your hand on me.” He lowered his head and closed his eyes. He made an odd grimace, half pleasure and half awe, like a boy about to plunge into a pool of water,—then stood upright, proud and delighted as any victorious king. He drew a long breath of relief. He seemed astonished that it had been so easily accomplished.

  “I’m full of it!” he cried. “I’m burning! He touched me on the head!”

  “Touched!” cried Judy, full herself of joy and happy envy.

  The boy nodded his head, as though he would nod it off on to the tablecloth. He looked as if any minute he might burst into flame with the sheer enjoyment of it. “Warm all over,” he gasped. “I could strike a match on my trousers now like Weeden.”

  Then, while Uncle Felix rubbed his eyes and did his best to see the invisible, Judy sprang lightly from her chair, ran up to the vacant place, put out her arms and bent her face down so that her falling torrent of hair concealed it for a moment. She certainly put her arms round—something. The next minute she straightened up again with triumph and tumult in her shining eyes.

  “I kissed him,” she announced, flushed like any rose, “and he kissed me back. He blew the wind into my hair as well. I’m flying! I’m lighter than a feather!” And she went, dancing and flitting, round the table like a happy bird.

  Then Uncle Felix rose sedately from his seat. He did not mean to be left out of all this marvellous business merely because his body was a little older and more worn. He stretched his arm across the table, missing the cream-jug by a narrow margin, but knocking the toast-rack over in his eagerness. He held his hand out to the empty chair.

  “Please take my hand,” he said, “and let me have something too.”

  He went through the pantomime of shaking hands, but to his intense amazement it seemed that there was an answering clasp. A smooth, soft running touch closed gently on his own; it was cool and yielding, delic
ate as the down upon a robin’s breast, yet firm as steel. And in that moment he knew that his glimpse on entering the room was not a trick, but had been a passing glimpse of what the children always believed in, hoped for—saw.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, withdrawing his hand and examining it, “very much indeed. This is a beautiful day.”

  An extraordinary power came into him, a feeling of confidence and security and joy he had never known before. Yet all he could find to say was that it was a very beautiful day. The commonest speech expressed exactly what he felt. Ordinary words at last had meaning, small words could tell it.

  “It’s all right?” remarked Tim, in an excited but quite natural tone.

  “It is,” he answered.

  “Then let’s go out now and do all sorts of things. There’s simply heaps to do.”

  “Out into the sun,” cried Judy. “Come on. We’ll get into our old garden boots.” And she dragged her brother headlong out of the room.

  THE STRANGER WHO IS WONDER

  ..................

  II

  AND UNCLE FELIX MOVED FORWARD into the pool of sunlight that blazed upon the faded carpet pattern. It was composed of round, fat trees, this pattern, with birds like goblin peacocks flying in mid-air between them. The sunshine somehow lifted them, so that they floated upon the quivering atmosphere; the pattern seemed to hover between him and the carpet. And he too felt himself lifted—in mid-air—part of the day and sunshine.

  He closed his eyes; he tried to realise who and where he was; all he could remember, however, went into a single sentence and kept repeating itself on the waves of his singing, dancing blood: “Clock’s stopped, clock’s stopped,—stopped clocks, stopped clocks…!” till it sounded like a puzzle sentence—then lost all meaning.

  He sat down in a chair, but the chair was next to the “empty” one, and from it something poured into him, over him, round him, as wind pours about a bird or tree. He became enveloped by it; his mind began to rush, yet rushed in a circle, so that he never entirely lost sight of it. Another set of words replaced the first ones: “Behind Time, behind Time,” jostling on each other’s heels, tearing round and round like a Catherine Wheel, shining and dancing as they spun.