Norman Invasions

by John Norman

  Ready in the courtyard of nature for appropriation.

  Ready for snaring, for capture and use.

  Did she then understand, in the dream, of course, if only for a terrifying moment, the meaning of her slightness, her fragility, her vulnerability, the destiny and meaning of her excruciatingly, tantalizingly alluring slim curves, of her remarkable, unmistakable, considerable beauty?

  In the dream, you see, I had suddenly grasped something which she had not, that she was the product of a long line of calculated, supervised breedings, a line, perhaps one of several similarly selected stocks, which had been supervised and tended for thousands of years.

  She had been bred for me.

  Her eyes were wide, straining to see and understand, to comprehend. Her lower lip trembling, her small hand at her palpitating breast, so delicate and appropriate a gesture, she backed away from me, and, in an instant, frightened, turned and, fleeing, vanished, and did she think there was an escape for her, and there was suddenly then a vast snorting noise, a roar, or neighing, like thunder, and a mighty form rose up before me, dark and gigantic, rearing on its hind legs, its hoofs flailing, slashing at the air, and I crouched down before it, and covered my head, and screamed.

  I am rather sure I remember the sounds of shattering wood and glass, and voices, solicitous, first in the dark, calling up to me. Then, in a bit, I heard steps on the stairs, hurrying. A moment later Mrs. Fraser, followed by two of her roomers, entered the room. She was carrying a candle. I had seen its flickering light approaching, through the opening I had left, as I usually did, for the cat. She looked about, at me, and then the room, and cried out in dismay. In a moment or two the other roomers appeared.

  “Are you all right, sir?” said Mrs. Fraser.

  “Yes,” I said. “I must have been sleeping. I must have cried out. I’m sorry.”

  “What happened here?” asked a man.

  I looked about, wildly. The room was in disarray. It might have been the stall of a powerful, maddened animal.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t.

  The window was shattered, its wooden partitions splintered away, scattered with a shower of glass into the yard below. The sill was broken. The side of the window on the right, as one looked out, had been forced from the wall, enlarging the opening. Indeed, though the window was a large one for the structure, part of the wall was gone. Some planking, and several slats of ruptured lath, plaster clinging to it, projected outward from the room. It was as though something quite large, some huge animal, like a bear, a bull or stallion, had somehow inadvertently found its way into the room, and had then, in terror or fury, perhaps sensing itself confined or trapped, bolted, rushing blindly toward the window, shattering it, and leaping to the outside.

  I staggered to my feet. “I must have been walking in my sleep,” I said. “I must have done this, somehow. I don’t know how, but I must have done this. I’ll pay for the damage, surely. I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry!”

  “This is not your doing, sir,” said one of the roomers.

  “Never,” said another, grimly.

  “Is anything missing?” asked another, looking about.

  “There must have been a thief, a prowler,” said one of the men.

  “Sir is not of the village,” said a fellow. “Someone thought he had money.”

  “Do you have money?” asked another.

  “Not really,” I said. “Nothing much.”

  “A thief would not know that,” pointed out another.

  “The gentleman awakened, and the fellow went for the window,” said a man.

  “Such things do not happen in my house,” said Mrs. Fraser.

  “This must be reported to the constable,” said a man.

  “If you like,” I said. “But I think I am all right. I do not think anything is missing. I may have done this myself, somehow.”

  “Never,” said a fellow.

  “I am sure this was not done by local folk,” said a man.

  “No, we have no thieves here,” added another.

  “It would be an outsider,” said another.

  “Aye,” said another.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes.” Yes, I thought, it would be an outsider, an outsider.

  “I’ll have some repairs begun tomorrow,” said Mrs. Fraser.

  “Keep the outside door locked,” said one of the roomers, uneasily.

  “I have never seen the need, but I shall do so,” she said. “It is a lamentable thing, that one should have to lock the doors of one’s own house.”

  “Aye,” agreed a fellow.

  Mrs. Fraser and the others then left the room.

  I sat on the edge of the bed. Oddly, I now felt serene. In a few minutes I rose and lit the kerosene lamp and looked about. Indeed, nothing was missing. With a piece of toweling I wiped away a large, hooflike mark from the shattered sill. When I returned to the bed, I discovered, to my surprise, that the cat was there, curled at its foot. Earlier she had fled at my very appearance, an unusual behavior on her part, which had troubled me, which had made me muchly uneasy. I petted her for a bit, and then retired. It was probably something like three in the morning. I saw the moon through the shattered window, and the sea beyond. I could not see the beach because of the cliffs, to which, in places, the waters were closely adjacent. I awakened once, wondering if, below, on the beach, I heard the sound of hoof beats, racing through the sand. Then, the cat at my feet, I slept soundly.

  February 15th. I have had the sense, for some days, that I am waiting for something. I am not altogether clear what it is, but I sometimes think I know its general nature. How much is real, how much is madness, if any of it, I do not know. Went to the pub. Haven’t been there for some time. Odd conversation with old Duncan. Gavin not about. Finished article. Think it all right. Full moon tonight. Mention this because old Duncan called it to my attention. Not clear why. Think he may be mad. Perhaps we all are.

  When the dream recurs now I am no longer disturbed by it, the dream of the girl, so lofty, haughty, cold, prudish and smug, and the horse, or that which, in the dream, assumes that form.

  The girl is mine. She does not know it, of course, but she is owned, and it is I, her master, who own her. She has been bred for me, and for the bearing of my son, who will one day return to this place.

  There are other aspects of the dream, but I cannot explain them to you. At the least it would be difficult. I think the words are lacking. Actually, it is the experiences which are lacking. Suppose one could add the sense of sight to one congenitally blind. What a new world would open for him. Now conceive, if only as an abstraction, for that is only how you can conceive it, and only how I could have conceived it earlier, before the dreams, what it might be if you were given, or discovered you possessed, new senses, if you, so to speak, for the first time opened your eyes and could see, or lifted your head, and could hear.

  Doubtless old Duncan is daft. The things he says, the way he says them. We had a pint together. Interestingly, it seems he remembers my father, when he was here, long ago. We spoke of him for a time. It seems they had been friends, of a sort. “Gavin is foolish, he does not believe,” he said, rather pointlessly, I thought. I did not speak to him about his interview with the constable, which, from a distance, I had inadvertently observed. I suppose he had seen me, from the manner in which he had concluded his conversation, and went about his business. He made no mention of this to me, either. To be sure, this might have had nothing to do with me.

  “I have seen it, and more than once,” said old Duncan to me, leaning forward, across the table, whispering. “Long ago, and lately, too, indeed, twice within the fortnight.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “It, the calpa,” he whispered.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Twice on the beach, and last night in the village itself, amongst t
he houses.”

  “Dear Duncan,” I said, “you are old, and it is your imagination.”

  “Why have you come to the village?” he asked.

  “To work,” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Do what you have to,” he said. “And then go. It is best that way.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “I bear you no ill will,” he said.

  “I am pleased to hear it,” I replied.

  “Nor it,” he said.

  “It?” I asked.

  “Aye,” he whispered, “it.”

  “The calpa?” I said.

  “Aye,” he said.

  “I am sure that it, too, would be pleased to hear it,” I said.

  “Tonight,” said Duncan, lighting his pipe, “it is the full moon.”

  “So?” I said.

  There was a rumble of thunder outside, which did not please me. Once before I had been caught in a storm here, between the pub and Hill House. I made a mental note to cut short the evening’s pubbing. I had no interest in being soaked and chilled a second time, at least not so soon again. Indeed, even before I had left Hill House, Mrs. Fraser had referred to the menacing, gathering clouds, and recommended caution, and an early return. It might be a terrible storm.

  “It was the full moon, too, once, long ago, when your father was here,” he said. “It seems to like the full moon, like some fish, like some animals.”

  “There won’t be much of a moon tonight,” I said. “Too many clouds. A storm is coming in. Listen. Hear the wind?” It was indeed beginning to whistle about the pub. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “No,” he said, quickly. “You go by yourself. I’ll nurse another pint.”

  “As you will,” I said. It was curious. I almost thought he might be afraid. Surely I could have seen him safely home, supporting him, even in the darkness, keeping him from falling. He was not young any longer.

  “It likes the moon,” he said, “like some fish, some animals.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “The moon,” he said, “will lay a road on the sea, leading to the cliffs. You won’t see it, but it will be there.”

  “You’re mad, my dear Duncan,” said I.

  “The world is mad, laddie,” said he, “only it does not know it.”

  “If you believe in the calpa, and have seen it,” I asked, “how is it that you are still alive, that you were not killed, drowned?”

  “I mean it no harm,” said Duncan. “I think it knows that, as you know I mean you no harm. I do not threaten it. I let it be.”

  “But surely you believe it to be some unnatural, demonic, dangerous thing?”

  “Too,” said Duncan, “I knew your father.”

  I remembered the beast of the dream, rearing, snorting, with its wide, distended nostrils and burning eyes, its mane wild, whipped and torn as in the blasts of a hurricane, seeming to be in more than the room, the high, broad hoofs flailing above me, like hammers.

  “What difference would that make?” I asked.

  “I do not know what it is,” said Duncan. “I do know that it is, for I have seen it.”

  “And you have lived to tell about it.”

  “If none lived to tell about it,” said Duncan, “its existence would not be known, would it?”

  “No,” I laughed, “it would not be.” It seemed to me that he made his point, or something like it, in his daft way. Certainly I granted it to him.

  “Perhaps it does not know I have seen it,” said Duncan.

  It does now.

  “What did you say?” asked Duncan.

  How strange he was. I had not said anything.

  I myself had seen the thing, or a form of it, only in dreams. I had, of course, seen prints. So had most in the village, I wager, those who, in the daylight, had gone down to the beach.

  “The whole thing is a hoax,” I said.

  “Gavin is angry,” he said.

  “Where is Gavin?” I asked.

  “Not here,” said he.

  “What is he angry about?” I asked.

  “The whole business,” he said. “I warned him not to interfere.”

  He will not interfere.

  “What?” asked Duncan, looking up.

  But I shook my head, again I had said nothing.

  Sweet Duncan, sweet, superstitious old fool.

  I waited until Duncan had finished his pipe, and then I finished my ale, I had limited myself to one, and took my leave.

  I wished to avoid the storm.

  I missed seeing Gavin, for I was fond of him. He was one of the few villagers of my own age, or nearly so, perhaps a year or two younger. He had had some education. Sometimes we had spoken, about the sea, the village, fishing, and about London, that great, mysterious, far-off, sparkling, bejeweled, wicked city to the south.

  Some of the villagers were illiterate. I rather doubted that Duncan could read or write, but I never inquired into the matter.

  When I left the pub, to return to Hill House, I glanced up at the moon, through the racing clouds. I felt a drop of rain. There was a flash of lighting, far out to sea. It was a full moon as far as I could tell, but I had not kept track of such things, maybe a little less, a little more, maybe full. The astronomy of natural satellites had little to do, as far as I could tell, with the economics of guild socialism.

  It had started to rain when I came to Hill House, but I did not immediately enter. I thought I might have heard a small cry, far off, but it was the wind. I looked up at the window, and the adjoining wall, which had now been repaired, though not yet painted. I had rather expected to see the cat there, ensconced in one of her favorite coigns of vantage, but was disappointed. I trusted she would take shelter as the night threatened to be formidable. I was pleased I had left the pub as early as I had.

  I turned toward the door when the clouds broke and the moon loomed over me, white and monstrous. Then the clouds closed again, obscuring it.

  I would be very pleased to reach the shelter of my room. I entered and went up the stairs. The outside door had not yet been locked. I gathered it would be, later. At least one of Mrs. Fraser’s roomers had suggested that precaution. The cat, of course, could come and go through the cat flap in the kitchen door.

  I made a brief entry in my journal, and prepared to spend the rest of the evening reading. The storm, meanwhile, became angrily active.

  Such storms can last for hours.

  Muchly was I pleased that the repairs had been promptly and efficiently accomplished.

  I think I fell asleep, over the book.

  I remember awakening, rather suddenly. It must have been late. My first thought was one of annoyance, that I had fallen asleep.

  I wondered if I had heard a noise, a whimpering cry, a plea as though for mercy, or help. That would have been in some dream.

  I was angry that I had fallen asleep.

  The storm was still raging. One could see flashes of lightning in the distance, out to sea, and then, several seconds later, hear the rumble of thunder, rolling inward, crashing ashore. The rain poured on the shingles. One could scarcely see through the window there was so much rain running on the panes, banking on the partitions, flowing over. The wind whipped the rain against the glass. The shutters, which I had not closed, rattled on their hinges.

  I should have prepared for bed before reading, I suppose, but I had not planned on falling asleep in the chair.

  The shutters, caught in the wind, suddenly banged open and shut.

  It may have been that sound that had awakened me.

  I went to the window to fasten the shutters, as I should have earlier, either back and latched, or closed, and latched, given the storm. I decided to close them. That way the slats would
protect the window, and the unpainted partitions, and part of the sill. Too, that might make it a bit easier to sleep, as the room, abruptly, unpredictably, was, again and again, washed with white light, followed by roaring thunder. I could see lightning, too, far out to sea. It seemed to be coming closer.

  It would not be a pleasant job, opening the window, to get at the shutters, but it needed to be done. Certainly one would not want them crashing back and forth all night. Too, they might disturb the other residents in the house. It would be embarrassing if Mrs. Fraser, or one of her roomers, came upstairs to see about it, perhaps offering to fasten them for me.

  I raised the sash and, half closing my eyes against the ferocity of the storm, feeling the rain drenching my shirt, reached outward to grasp the shutters. I had actually begun to draw them inward, to fasten them closed, gratefully, when I stopped, startled, for below me, in the yard, in the driving rain, oddly illuminated in the moonlight, between bursts of lightning, was a small, white figure, she whom I had seen before. She had been running, it seemed, and had just fallen in the gravel and grass, and was on her hands and knees. She turned, and looked up, wildly, toward the window. She was gasping, and muddy. Frantic. She was naked, as before, absolutely so, starkly so, save for that wealth of long blond hair, feet in length, bedraggled, clinging thickly about her like golden, sopped slave cord. How terrified, how beautiful, she was! There, miserable, in the cold and rain. She might have been a delicate, high-born Medieval maiden, escaped perhaps for a moment from barbarians, who had loutishly removed her rings, her jewels, and then, doubtless enjoying her humiliation, mocking her tears, ignoring her protests, roaring with laughter at her unspeakable, unconscionable grief and shame, inappropriate in a thrall, however new to her bondage, her brocade, and lace, leaving not the kindness or grace, or mercy, of a single thread upon her, this preparatory doubtless to handing her about, man to man, victor to victor, she their prize, now belonging to them, rightfully taken from weaker men, theirs now, by the right of nature, putting her to their common pleasure. Barbarians, if they found her satisfactory, sufficiently helpless and gasping, I supposed, might take her with them, on a leash, bound, to their ship. Such do well in cleaning stables, in scrubbing the stone floors of rude halls, in laundering, in carrying water and cooking, in serving at a master’s table, and in his bed.