Ape's Face

by Marion L. Fox

  ‘I don’t suggest such an idea. It would not be a person like yourself to move the powers behind Nature. They move themselves, and we get caught in the undercurrent if we are not careful. You think you willed Godfrey and Arthur to meet here this evening. You thought it would be an amusing sight to watch their chagrin at seeing they had been fooled at the same time, by the same woman, without either of them knowing the other’s secret? Well, I tell you there were other forces plying in the same direction. It was like following the workings of an old mine, really. I daresay you were not even the tool. You are only a symbol of something much vaster, much more cruel, much more passionate.’

  ‘Oh, as to passion,’ cried the girl, ‘I haven’t any! Your brothers interested me as curiosities. I wanted to see the little marionettes work. That’s all. Godfrey has often come round in the evenings to sigh under my window; it began in the summer, when it was still quite pleasantly warm at ten o’clock. But I never let him in. Arthur only came in the afternoons. I used often to wonder if they would clash; but they never did—until this evening. They are such innocents—I beg your pardon—but they are! I thought it was time they learnt a lesson. They are not so fascinating as they think, beautiful though they be! Arthur may be in years to come; but he will be slow in forming.’

  ‘Then this was the first evening you had admitted Godfrey?’ Ape’s-face asked.

  ‘The very first. He was so silly, I wanted to laugh at him; and besides I was hoping—expecting Arthur. He would have formed a chaperon, wouldn’t he, quite properly?’

  Armstrong stopped for a moment and examined the ground closely.

  From among the medley of horses’ hoofs the prints of a man’s feet now disclosed themselves quite clearly—not the whole foot, but just the fore-part, as though he had been running. Armstrong pointed this out to Ape’s-face.

  ‘That would be Arthur,’ said the girl. ‘You see, I had hardly opened the door and led Godfrey into the sitting-room . . . indeed, I was just poking the fire to make a nice blaze, when suddenly I saw a queer shadow move across the room, and there was Arthur standing on the threshold glaring at us. They both looked at one another for a few moments, and I laughed, it seemed so very comic. I asked them to shake hands and sit down, as we were all mutual friends. Then they began to be very rude to one another; they took no notice of me. And then Arthur threw something at Godfrey, and Godfrey flew at Arthur’s throat. It looked horrid. Arthur made such a queer gurgling noise.

  After a moment or two he got free, and tried to get away, but Godfrey got hold of him again. They swayed about and knocked over the furniture, and I thought of calling for help. Then all of a sudden Arthur cried out:

  ‘Good God! he’ll murder me!’ So then I did call and no one answered. It was very horrible though, for I thought I heard someone laugh in the passage.

  I hid my face a moment. When I looked up again Arthur had freed himself a second time and was making for the door. He looked at me as he ran, and though I was terribly afraid of Godfrey I tried to stop his following. I tripped him up with a chair. It gave Arthur a moment or two more to escape. Godfrey swore at me as he picked himself up, and I almost fancied he would turn on me; but after hesitating a second he dashed out of the house after Arthur. I screamed and Mr Lush came down. It was then he went out to the stables and saddled his horse.’

  ‘And the woman in the tree?’ asked Ape’s-face.

  ‘I ran round to the front of the house to see which way they had gone, and when I came to the trees it seemed as if one of them suddenly moved. I thought madness had come upon me. Then suddenly I saw it was an old tramp-woman crouched on the roots of the tree. She had no teeth and no hair; she appeared to have no eyelids either, they were so sunken under the protruding brows. She grinned at me with her horrid wrinkled lips, and mumbled something. She looked like the Death in Holbein’s dance, with a bedraggled feather hanging over one ear. Dreadful she seemed.’

  ‘How monstrous!’ Ape’s-face cried under her breath. ‘I must go home again and see . . .’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Armstrong, ‘you are losing control of yourself. For Heaven’s sake don’t get hysterical. We must find your brothers before everything else.’ He caught her by the arm, for she had already turned round in the homeward direction.

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ she said faintly.

  The mist thickened in front of them, the ground sloping downwards.

  They had evidently come to one of those hollows where mists cling longest and most densely. It was difficult to discern the tracks, difficult to keep a firm foothold even. They were cold and blind and helpless. Ella began to whimper a little. The noise of her whimpering was particularly distasteful at that moment: it suggested all things that are weak and false or easily overcome. It brought the power and greatness of the downs into still stronger contrast.

  They were forced to stand together there in that fine fold upon the slope.

  They could not see, either for going forward or coming backwards. Armstrong surmised that they must have come to the dip in the land where once the old river ran. On the opposite slope would be the ancient cattle-track scored roughly along the hillside. They waited. The mist fluttered slightly. There came a small sigh of wind. No more. Again Ella whimpered. The mist fluttered to the point of lifting. The ground became clear. Armstrong stooped and saw that here all three tracks separated. The man on foot fled straight on, one horse bore rather to his left, the second horse diverged still more upon that side. He and Ape’s-face debated which course to follow. Ella prayed to return.

  She was utterly unheeded.

  The long silence, and the cold night breeze through it, the undulating land desolate under snow—all these held them at bay. Then as they waited, under the mist came a dark shape towards them—a man on a horse. He nearly rode them down.

  ‘Who is it?’ cried Ape’s-face sharply.

  ‘And you?’ returned the voice.

  ‘Josephine Delane-Morton,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Lush,’ he replied, ‘and I can’t find those brothers of yours anywhere, ma’am. The mist came down on me and I couldn’t follow their tracks any longer. Let’s hope they have gone and lost themselves from one another too.

  That’ll cool their hot blood soon enough. It seems one of them took a horse out of my stable. Didn’t stop to saddle him either.’

  ‘Which would that be?’ Armstrong asked Ape’s-face quickly.

  ‘Godfrey,’ she said, ‘Arthur cannot ride.’

  ‘Coming home along then?’ queried Mr. Lush.

  Ape’s-face answered sharply. ‘No.’

  ‘Take my horse then, miss,’ he said, ‘or the gentleman here could ride it.’

  He dismounted as he spoke, and slipped the reins into Armstrong’s hand.

  ‘I shall go home with you, Father Lush,’ whimpered Ella.

  ‘Right you are, miss,’ he said obligingly, ‘it’s no night for people what don’t belong to these parts, and not much for them either.’ With which he offered her his arm, and the two departed into the mists together, leaving Armstrong and Ape’s-face alone with the horse between them.

  ‘I cannot ride,’ he said.

  ‘I can,’ said she, and swung herself up into the saddle. She had no covering upon her head, her hair had escaped from its pins, and hung loose about her neck and ears. There was something free and fine in the carriage of her head as she looked down at him. ‘And now which way shall we go?’ she cried.

  He shook his head.

  She looked straight through the shifting veils in front, and he could see her nostrils quiver, like the nostrils of a hound scenting a trail. Her eyes were closed.

  ‘Straight ahead then,’ she said; ‘don’t you smell the thing?’

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  ‘We shall be following Arthur.’

  ‘That’s eastward,’ he said, consulting his compass.

  She looked somewhat impatient. ‘Go by the compass then,’ she said.

  ‘It leads to t
he old stone,’ he returned, justifying himself.

  ‘Of course,’ she cried, ‘where else?’ and then suddenly: ‘Come! Quick!’ and was off into the mist as though she had seen something not far away.

  Armstrong ran after her. She could not go fast down the incline, and he soon caught her up.

  ‘Take hold of the bridle,’ she said, ‘and hold on to my stirrup when we climb the other side.’

  He saw her face grown pale above him, and felt his hands go cold.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ he said, low.

  ‘No,’ she replied in the same tone, ‘but there is something coming up the downs behind us, coming from the west eastward. Do you smell nothing now? Do you hear nothing?’

  ‘No,’ he said again, panting at the steepness of the climb.

  They had evidently come to the top of the encampment, for now the ground went fairly level beneath their feet. It must be that portion of the way which led straight to the ancient fortified place in its triple row of trenches.

  They felt their way cautiously, as quickly as might be. Now and again the horse started, pricked its ears, and swerved. Armstrong caught it firmly by the bridle. It grew more and more restive at every step, jerking its head, and whinnying. Suddenly Ape’s-face pulled up short. He turned round and looked in her face: it was quite ashen, the nostrils quivering, the mouth set: only her eyes were calm and clear, there was no sign in them of fear.

  ‘Hold tight to the bridle,’ she said in a whisper, ‘I feel it coming.’

  Armstrong was suddenly overwhelmed with the horror which he saw she felt. If her eyes had not been sane he would have thought her mad. He himself felt nothing but dampness of the mist and coldness of the night air.

  He held the bridle with both hands.

  As they stood there in a tense group the low sound of wind whispering came from far behind them; it gathered in volume, growing rapidly; it swept across the downs in one furious outburst, rending the veils of mist from right to left. It slashed at them, and cut them through; it howled and shrieked, and passed in a moment. The obscurity hung in white helpless rags and tatters, leaving the downs stark and black under a fierce starlight. They saw the wind sweep far along over the dark country, tearing the mists as it went, making an avenue of utter desolation, and in that avenue an awful peace. They stood and looked upon the thing with wide eyes.

  Again Armstrong felt the ancient horror brooding on that place, again the waves of darkness clutched to overwhelm him, and yet again the great plains swelled and heaved with that antique pain. The iciness of death passed across his body. And in that moment there came clearly across the Downs the sound of an extraordinary onrush. It was not like the sound of the wind, though it was just as swift and strong; it had almost the sound of running feet, beating upon hard stone; and yet it was like one footfall multiplied into a myriad. It was the noise of some body in motion the like of which no one had ever seen. It was a sound quite inexpressible, because the thing itself was unknown, unseen, untold. It passed them in a flash and was gone eastward before they could draw breath. Almost it might not have passed, it was so strange and unbelievable that the senses refused it credence. Yet it left behind that queer odour, which had hung about the old hall, and a sense of horror that was unmistakable. The horse itself bore witness, with wide-distended nostrils, and eyes rolling wildly, the whites dilated horribly; in every limb it quivered, and its coat was damp with sweat. Armstrong found that he was clinging stupidly to the bridle with both hands.

  ‘Let him go!’ Ape’s-face cried hoarsely in his ear. He tried to leave go and could not, he felt he was gaping upon her. She struck the horse with her heel, it trembled but did not move. With a sudden movement she was on the ground, and running wildly towards the encampment. Under the stars Armstrong could see the great hump of the embankments showing dark and firm—black and grim. It was not more than a hundred yards away. They had come farther than he thought. Just for a moment his activities seemed suspended, he could only watch. Then, pulling the reins through his arm, he went quickly after her, the horse following meekly.

  The sides of the trenches were too steep and too high to attempt with the horse, so he left it at the outermost circle, and descended them as quickly as possible alone. Ape’s-face was already at the top of the third and last enclosure, he could see her figure stand out for one moment under the stars, before she descended again into the innermost ring. The eeriness of the time and place grew upon him as he too climbed and descended those three enclosing circles: at every step the horrid odour intensified, until it became nauseating and turned him giddy. He felt his power of action flag under its attack. If he had paused then, he would have fallen. He scrambled to the top of the earthwork, and as he came, scream after scream burst piercingly upon his hearing.

  It hardly sounded like the cry of a human being. The very stars seemed to shrivel to mere dagger-pricks at the sound. The sky appeared to draw away from the ground in horror. He tried to use his eyes, to lift his eyelids—they felt unutterably heavy.

  He was standing looking down into the centre of the circle. The place where the ground had sunk with the stone’s removal lay full and clear in the light from the stars. It was fifty yards from him, but he could see everything plainly from the height at which he stood looking down upon the scene.

  There, in the patch of starlit grass, the two men whom they had pursued so long struggled together. Their faces kept coming, turn by turn, into the light as they writhed and fought in one another’s arms. Now one, now the other seemed uppermost as they sought for a grip at the throat. They had no weapons—that was evident—but they meant to kill none the less. It was written hatefully on the face of either. They had never looked more alike, never more hideous, or more beautiful than now. He could hear the sound of their heavy breathing, it came to him in great sobs. He could not tell which of them had screamed. And he continued standing there, unable to move, just a spectator.

  Ape’s-face had come rapidly across the open space, and stood on the verge of the struggle. She too seemed waiting. He could not guess what it would be possible for her to do. Then suddenly the scream came again. It was Arthur who screamed. He remembered the sickening sound of a rabbit caught by a stoat; it had screamed so, but less terribly a thousandfold. Godfrey seemed to be crushing him backwards to the earth with all his force: he saw the face come first, pressed down, horribly contorted, then the throat, white, strangely protruding. Armstrong himself cried aloud, and leapt down into the ring. The whole place seemed full of a sickening, reeling throng through which he could scarcely breathe. He saw that Arthur lay along the ground now, fallen across the cavity where the stone had rested long ago. For a moment he lay at his brother’s feet, motionless, lifeless, whilst the other glowered at him with eyes distended, and with a ghastly hatred. Only for a moment: then he prepared to fling himself again upon the fallen man. But in that moment Ape’s-face threw herself between: she cast herself along the body of her brother, her face upturned to Godfrey, her arms outstretched along the grass. Lying so, she covered, shielded him. Godfrey’s rage did not seem to abate even then. He fell upon her. Armstrong saw with horror the red blood flowing from her nostrils. He sprang upon Godfrey and clutched him from behind. For an instant the man resisted, then slowly he relaxed his hold, and staggered backwards upon Armstrong’s shoulder.

  There was a great rumour and confusion throughout the circle. The atmosphere seemed to contract and change. Again Armstrong was aware of that curious readjustment of angles, the tilting of consciousness as it were, and the view of a new perspective. Across that, and arising out of the blood which flowed from Ape’s-face, there slowly emerged the strangeness of some inexplicable form.

  It drew together in a curious flowing pattern, like the eddying of water under a bridge, scaled, feathered, he scarcely knew which. It was not on the air, or in the air, it seemed rather to be through and of it all. Her blood seemed to flow into this shape, transforming it to the semblance of something human.
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br />   A kind of body seemed to clothe itself upon this thing. It rose into the air, as it were up-gathered. A countenance, blind, blended of nameless expressions, came into view for one moment and seemed to fade again. It left an impression of extraordinary strength and beauty, mingled with a certain charity or grace.

  The eye seemed unable to hold that impression. Only the mind kept its image, as of something at peace after warfare, smiling and released. The three of them saw this thing. Then suddenly the great rushing sound filled both length and breadth of the downs, and the winged creature had fled westward down the avenues of night. They watched it go and vanish in the darkness.

  Ape’s-face from her knees had risen to her feet. She turned to Armstrong.

  ‘This is not the end,’ she said, and then: ‘Oh, God! give this poor earth a little rest.’ She was silent a moment. ‘How should we catch it, or arrest it on its way? I do not think it can do harm any more. Let us go home.’

  XIV

  Animated Dust

  MEANWHILE THERE SAT on the stump of a tree in the mist a little twisted, distorted body that kept mowing and mouthing to itself; and inside the body sat a little twisted, distorted mind, mowing and mouthing to itself also. It was only a little animated dust. It was full of glee, this small thing, following out itself to its own logical conclusion.

  It had looked on crookedness all its life, and what it had desired that it had desired crookedly. It lived in a world where possession alone was power, and possession the end of desire. What it owned, it owned secretly: what means it used towards ownership had been secret and tortuous too. It had used its own will to bend that of others, and in bending them it had grown bent itself. From a live being, from body and soul, it had become now no more than a little animated dust.

  It is not so much to be blamed at its conclusion as at its beginning, when deliberately it set itself to go awry. It is certainly a thing of horror, being something not quite human in a human form. A thing to haunt one’s dreams at nights, a thing the mind could not forget even if it would: it must not forget this symbol of all crookedness.