“Forgotten what he looks like. That’s it. Same trouble here,” and he tapped his breast. “We’re all together, doing the same old thing. The whole world’s doing it. It’s the only thing to do.” And he looked so wise and knowing that their wonder increased to a kind of climax; they were tapping their own breasts before they knew it.
“Doing it everywhere,” he went on, weighing his speech as usual; “only some don’t know they’re doing it.” He looked significantly into their shining eyes, then finished with a note of triumph in his voice. “We do!”
“Hooray!” cried Tim. “We can all start looking together now.”
“Maybe,” agreed the wanderer, very sweetly for a tramp, they thought.
They glanced at their Uncle first for his approval; the Tramp glanced at him too; his face was flushed and happy, the eyes very bright. But there was an air of bewilderment about him too. He nodded his head, and repeated in a shy, contented voice—as though he surrendered himself to some enchantment too great to understand—"I think so; I hope so; I—wonder!”
“We’ve looked everywhere already,” Tim shouted by way of explanation—when the Tramp cut him short with a burst of rolling laughter:
“But in the wrong kind of places, maybe,” he suggested, moving forward like a hedge or bit of hayfield the wind pretends to shift.
“Oh, well—perhaps,” the boy admitted.
“Probly,” said Judy, keeping close beside him.
“Of course,” decided Uncle Felix; “but we’ve been pretty warm once or twice all the same.” He lumbered after the other three, yet something frisky about him, as about a pony released into a field and still uncertain of its bounding strength.
“Have you really?” remarked their leader, good-humouredly, but with a touch of sarcasm. “Good and right, so far as it goes; only ‘warm’ is not enough; we want to be hot, burning hot and steaming all the time. That’s the way to find him.” He paused and turned towards them; he gathered them nearer to him with his smiling eyes somehow. “It’s like this,” he went on more slowly than ever: “A good hider doesn’t choose the difficult places; he chooses the common ordinary places where nobody would ever think of looking.” He kept his eyes upon them to make sure they understood him. “The little, common places,” he continued with emphasis, “that no one thinks worth while. He hides in the open—bang out in the open!”
“In the open!” cried the children. “The open air!”
“In the open!” gasped Uncle Felix. “The open sea!”
The Tramp almost winked at them. He looked like a lot of ordinary people. He looked like everybody. He looked like the whole world somehow. He smiled just like a multitude. He spoke, as it were, for all the world—said the one simple thing that everybody everywhere was trying to say in millions of muddled words and sentences. The wind and trees and sunshine said it with him, for him, after him, before him. He said the thing—so Uncle Felix felt, at any rate,—that was always saying itself, that was everywhere heard, though rarely listened to; but, according to the children, the thing they knew and believed already. Only it was nice to hear it stated definitely—they felt.
And the tide of enchantment rose higher and higher; in a tide of flowing gold it poured about all three.
“That’s it,” the Tramp continued, as though he had not noticed the rapture his very ordinary words had caused. “Sea and land and air together. But more than that—he hides deep and beautiful.”
“Deeply and beautifully,” murmured the writer of historical novels, all of them entirely forgotten now.
“Deep and beautiful,” repeated the other, as though he preferred the rhythm of his own expression. He drew himself up and swallowed a long and satisfying draught of air and sunshine. He waved the little wagtail’s feather before their eyes. He touched their faces with its tip. “Deep, tender, kind, and beautiful,” he elaborated. “Those are the signs—signs that he’s been along—just passed that way. The whole world’s looking, and the whole world’s full of signs!”
For a moment all stood still together like a group of leafy things a passing wind has shaken, then left motionless; a wild rose-bush, a climbing vine, a clinging ivy branch—all three kept close to the stalwart figure of their big, incomparable leader.
And Judy knew at last the thing she didn’t know; Tim felt himself finally in the eternal centre of his haunted wood; in the eyes of Uncle Felix there was a glistening moisture that caught the sunlight like dew upon the early lawn. He staggered a little as though he were on a deck and the sea was rolling underneath him.
“How ever did you find it out?” he asked, after an interval that no one had cared to interrupt. “What in the world made you first think of it?” And though his voice was very soft and clear, it was just a little shaky.
“Well,” drawled the Tramp, “maybe it was just because I thought of nothing else. On the road we live sort of simply. There’s never any hurry; the wind’s a-blowing free; everything’s sweet and careless—and so am I.” And he chuckled happily to himself.
“Let’s begin at once!” cried Tim impatiently. “I feel warm already—hot all over—simply burning.”
The Tramp signified his agreement. “But you must each get a feather first,” he told them, “a feather that a bird has dropped. It’s a sign that we belong together. Birds know everything first. They go everywhere and see everything all at once. They’re in the air, and on the ground, and on the water, and under it as well. They live in the open—sea or land. And if you have a feather in your hand—well, it means keeping in touch with everything that’s going. They go light and easy; we must go light and easy too.”
They stared at him with wonder at the breaking point. It all seemed so obviously and marvellously true. How had they missed it up till now?
“So get a feather,” he went on quietly, “and then we can begin to look at once.”
No one objected, no one criticised, no one hesitated. Tim knew where all the feathers were because he knew every nest in the garden. He led the way. In less than two minutes all had small, soft feathers in their hands.
“Now, we’ll begin to look,” the Tramp announced. “It’s the loveliest game on earth, and the only one. It’s Hide-and-Seek behind the rushing minutes. And, remember,” he added, holding up a finger and chuckling happily, “there’s no hurry, the wind’s a-blowing free, the sun is warm, everything’s sweet and careless—and so are we.”
THE COMMON SIGNS
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V
“BUT HAS HE CALLED YET?” asked Tim, remembering suddenly that it wasn’t fair to begin till the hider announced that he was ready. “He’s got to hoot first, you know. Hasn’t he?” he added doubtfully.
“Listen!” replied the man of the long white roads. And he held his feather close against his ear, while the others copied him. Fixing their eyes upon a distant point, they listened, and as they listened, their lips relaxed, their mouths opened slowly, their eyebrows lifted—they heard, apparently, something too wonderful to be believed.
To Uncle Felix, still fumbling in his mind among unnecessary questions, it seemed that the power of hearing had awakened for the first time, or else had grown of a sudden extraordinarily acute. The children merely listened and said “Oh, oh, oh!”; the sound they heard was familiar, though never fully understood till now. For him, it was, perhaps, the recovery of a power he had long forgotten. At any rate he—heard. For the air passed through the tiny fronds of the feather—through the veined web of its delicate resistance—round the hollow stem and across the fluffy breadth of it—with a humming music as of wind among the telegraph wires, only infinitely sweet and far away. There were several notes in it, a chord—the music that accompanies all flying things, even a butterfly or settling leaf, and ever fills the air with unguessed melody.
It opened their power of hearing to a degree as yet undreamed of even by the all-believing children. Their feathers became wee, accurate, tuning-forks for all existence. They understood that every
thing in the whole world sang; that no rose leaf fluttered to the earth, no rabbit twitched its ears, no mouse its tail, no single bluebell waved a head towards its bluer neighbour, without this exquisite accompaniment of fairy music.
“Listen, listen!” the Tramp repeated softly from time to time, watching their faces keenly. “Listen, and you’ll hear him calling…!”
And this fairy humming, having so marvellously attuned their hearing, then led them on to the larger, louder sounds; they pricked their ears up, as the saying goes; they noticed the deeper music everywhere. For the morning breeze was rustling and whispering among the leaves and blades of grass with a thousand happy voices. It was the ordinary summer sound of moving air that no one pays attention to.
“Oh, that!” exclaimed Uncle Felix. “I hadn’t noticed it.” He felt ashamed. He who had taught them the beauty of the self-advertising Night-Wind, had somehow missed and overlooked the wonder—the searching, yearning beauty—of this meek, incomparable music: because it was so usual. For the first time in his life he heard the wind as it slipped between the leaves, shaking them into rapture.
“And that,” laughed the Tramp, cocking his great head to catch the murmur of the stream beyond the lawn, “if the dust of furniture and houses ain’t blocked your ears too thickly.” They stooped to listen. “Like laughter, isn’t it?” he observed, “singing and laughing mixed together?”
They straightened up again, too full of wonder to squeeze out any words.
“It’s everywhere,” said Uncle Felix, “this calling—these calling voices. Is that where you got your song from?”
“It’s everywhere and always,” replied the other evasively. “The birds get their singing from it. They get everything first, of course, then pass it on. The whole world’s music comes from that, though there’s nothing—nothing,” he added with emphasis, “to touch the singing of a bird. He’s calling everywhere and always,” he went on as no one contradicted him or ventured upon any question; “only you’ve got to listen close. He calls soft and beautiful. He doesn’t shout and yell at you.”
“Soft and beautiful, yes,” repeated Uncle Felix below his breath, “the small, still voices of the air and sea and earth.” And, as he said it, they caught the murmur of the little stream; they heard singing in the air as well. The blackbirds whistled in one direction, the thrushes trilled and gurgled in another, and overhead, both among the covering leaves and from the open sky, a chorus of twittering and piping filled the chambers of the day. Judy recalled, as of long ago, the warning bugle-call of an up-and-under bird; Tim faintly remembered having overheard some swallows “discussing” together; Uncle Felix saw a robin perched against a sky of pearly grey at the end of an interminable corridor that stretched across whole centuries…. Then, close beside the three of them, a bumble-bee, a golden fly, and a company of summer gnats went by—booming, trumpeting, singing like a tiny carillon of bells respectively.
“Hark and listen,” exclaimed the Tramp with triumph in his voice, and looking down at Tim particularly. “He’s calling all the time. It’s the little ordinary sounds that give the hints.”
“It’s an enormous hide; I mean to look for ever and ever,” cried the delighted boy.
“I can hear everything in the world now,” cried Judy.
“Signs,” said Uncle Felix, after a pause. This time he did not make a question of his thought, but merely dropped the word out like a note of music into the air. His feather answered it and took it further.
The Tramp caught the word flying before it reached the ground:
“Deep, tender, kind and beautiful,” he said, “but above all—beautiful.” He turned his shaggy head and looked about him carelessly. “There’s one of them, for instance,” he added, pointing across the lawn. “There’s a sign. It means he’s passed that way! He ain’t too far away—may-be.”
They followed the direction of his eyes. A dragon-fly paused hovering above the stream, its reflection mirrored in the clear running water underneath. Against the green palisade of reeds its veined and crystal wings scattered the sunlight into shining flakes. The blue upon its body burned—a patch of flaming beauty in mid-air. They watched it for a moment. Then, suddenly—it was gone, the spot was empty. But the speed, the poise, the perfect movement, the flashing wings, above all the flaming blue upon its tail still held them spellbound. Somehow, it seemed, they had borrowed that speed, that flashing beauty, making the loveliness part and parcel of themselves. Swiftly they turned and stared up at the Tramp. There was a rapt look upon his tangled face.
“A sign,” he was saying softly. “He’s passed this way. He can’t be hiding very far from here.” And, drawing a long, deep breath, he gazed about him into endless space as though about to sing again.
The dragon-fly had vanished, none knew whither, gone doubtless into some new hiding-place; it just gave the hint, then slipped away upon its business. But the wonder and the beauty it had brought remained behind, crept into every heart. The mystery of life, the reality that lay hiding at the core of things, the marvel and the dream—all these were growing clearer. All lovely things were “signs.” And there fell a sudden hush upon the group, for the Thing that Nobody could Understand crept up and touched them.
Abruptly, then, lest the wonder of it should prove more than they could bear perhaps, a blackbird whistled with a burst of flying laughter at them from the shrubberies. Laughter and dancing both were part of wonder. The Tramp at once moved forward, chuckling in his beard; he waved his arms; his step was lighter, quicker; he was singing softly to himself: they only caught stray sentences, but they loved the windy ringing of his voice. They knew not where he borrowed words and tune: “The world is young with laughter; we can fly…. Among the imprisoned hours as we choose…. The birds are singing…. Hark! Come out and play…. There is no hurry…. Life has just begun….”
“Come on!” cried Tim. “Let’s follow him; we’re getting frightfully warm!”
He seized Judy and his uncle by the hands and cleared the rivulet with a running leap. The Tramp, however, preferred to wade across. “Get into everything you can,” he explained in mid-stream with a laugh. “It keeps you in touch; it’s all part of the looking.”
He led them into the field where the blackbird still went on whistling its heart out into the endless summer morning. But to them it seemed that he led them out across the open world for ever and ever….
It grew very marvellous, this game of hide and seek. Sometimes they forgot it was a game at all, forgot what they were looking for, forgot that they were looking for anything or any one at all. Yet the mighty search continued subconsciously, even when passing incidents drew their attention from their chief desire. Always, at the back of thought, lay this exquisite, sweet memory in their hearts, something they half remembered, half forgot, but very dear, very marvellous. Some one was hiding somewhere, waiting, longing to play with them, expecting to be found.
It may be that intervals went by, those intervals called years and months; yet no one noticed them, and certainly no one named them. They knew one feeling only—the joy of endless search. Some one was hiding, some one was near, and signs lay scattered everywhere. This some one lay in his wonderful hiding-place and watched their search with laughter in his eyes. He remained invisible; perhaps they would never see him actually; but they felt his presence everywhere, in every object, every tree and flower and stone, in sun and wind, in water and in earth. The power and loveliness of common things became insistent. They were aware of them. It seemed they brushed against this shining presence, pushing for ever against a secret door of exit that led into the final hiding-place. Eager to play with them, yet more eager still to be discovered, the wonderful hider kept just beyond their sight and touch, while covering the playground with endless signs that he was near enough for them to know for certain he was—there. For among the four of them there was no heart that doubted. None explained. None said No…. Nor was there any hurry.
“I believe,” announce
d Tim at length, with the air of a sage about him, “the best way is to sit still and wait; then he’ll just come out like a rabbit and show himself.” And, as no one contradicted, he added confidently, “that’s my idea.” His love was evidently among the things of the soil, rabbits, rats and hedgehogs, both hunter and adventurer strong in him.
“A hole!” cried Judy with indignation. “Never! He’s in the air. I heard a bird just now that—”
“Whew!” whistled Uncle Felix, interrupting her excitedly. “He’s been along here. Look! I’m sure of it.” And he said it with such conviction that they ran up, expecting actual footprints.
“How do you know?” Tim asked dubiously, seeing no immediate proof himself. All paused for the reply; but Uncle Felix also paused. He had said a thing it seemed he could not justify.
“Don’t hesitate,” said the Tramp, watching him with amusement. “Don’t think before you speak. There’s nothing to think about until you’ve spoken.”
Uncle Felix wore an expression of bewilderment. “I meant the flowers,” he stammered, still unsure of his new powers.
“Of course,” the other chuckled. “Didn’t I tell you ‘tender and beautiful,’ and ‘bang out in the open’?”
“Then you’re right, Uncle; they are signs,” cried Judy, “and you do like butter,” and she danced away to pick the dandelions that smothered the field with gold. But the Tramp held out his feather like a wand.
“They’re our best signs, remember,” he cried. “You might as well pick a feather out of a living bird.”
“Oh!"—and she pulled herself up sharply, a little flush running across her face and the wind catching at her flying hair. She swayed a moment, nearly overbalancing owing to the interrupted movement, and looking for all the world like a wild young rose tree, her eyes two shining blossoms in the air. Then she dropped down and buried her nose among the crowd of yellow flowers. She smelt them audibly, drawing her breath in and letting it out again as though she could almost taste and eat the perfume.
The Algernon Blackwood Collection Page 125