Devils' Spawn

by Charles Birkin

  “Percy”—Molly turned to one of the onlookers—“go round to Bell and Brown’s, and tell Charlie to come at once . . . there’s a good boy.”

  The crowd outside the door eddied back, to make way for the doctor. Doctor Hallam took in the scene in the little sitting-room . . . noted the twisted position of the body.

  “Doctor,” Molly was distraught, “I’ve been afraid of this for a long time. Ronnie has been queer as queer lately . . . and so depressed.” She got up as the doctor knelt down. There was an interested silence, as he made his swift preliminary examination.

  “What is it?” Molly whispered. “Heart failure . . . is he dead?” Doctor Hallam shook his head gravely. Mrs. Medlicott was thrilled.

  “Pore thing! . . . Suicide?”

  The street considered suicide as a disgrace second only to murder. The doctor made no reply, but turned again to his investigation.

  Old Mrs. Strathers sat hunched in her chair, gazing at the heap of smouldering coal-dust. Dimly she heard the buzz of voices; but they came as if from a great distance. Her eyes were focussed on a bunch of violets in a brown earthenware bowl.

  After a time the crowd was dispersed, and Charlie and Molly were left alone with the old woman.

  Two days later the authorities sent to take her to the workhouse.

  The verdict was “Suicide while of unsound mind.” Mrs. Medlicott conveyed this information to old Mrs. Strathers on the occasion of the first of her rare visits to the workhouse; but the old woman seemed to have lost all interest in the subject, for she closed her eyes, and refused to open them again until after her visitor had left.

  SHELTER

  The sky had the appearance of lead; not the greyness that is so often the prelude to a shower, but the hard threatening monotone that, in conjunction with an expectant silence, precedes the breaking of a storm. Anxiously the rider searched for some sign of human habitation, but only the foothills, robbed of colour, stretched in unbroken sequence to the horizon.

  Far away a growl of thunder foretold the approach of the tempest. The leaves on the stunted trees whispered of tumult that would shortly lash their branches into a clangour of creaking chaos. The man sat motionless. It would not be a pleasant experience to be overtaken by what he knew was coming; and trees were hardly the ideal protection against the lightning, which, as he looked, rent the heavens, leaving them, by contrast, darker than before, emphasising the dim twilight.

  He spoke to his horse. “Come along, old man. If we go on we must get somewhere eventually.”

  The animal was restless and uneasy. Another growl of thunder followed, more closely this time, by a jagged snake of light.

  The track, that until now had been level, began to slant downwards. A gigantic crash, thrown back by the hills, almost deafened the man. The sound, imprisoned among the slopes, muttered in echo. A vicious flash seemed to strike the ground several hundred yards to his right, and still the rain kept off.

  Michael Christie patted the frightened horse beneath him. He realised that he was lost. He had set out for Fuiza, planning to stop the night in the hamlet of San Marco.

  And then he heard the coming of the rain as it swept through the trees. A large warm drop plashed softly on his upturned face; a second, and the heavy air was cut by the thickening arrows of water. The storm had broken; the lightning and thunder following so closely that they were practically simultaneous; a cannonade of noise and blinding brilliance, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of him.

  Michael had lived in Brazil some five years and never could he remember a storm of such violence. Praying to what powers there might be for guidance, he battled on. Drenched to the skin, his hands chafed by the wet leather of the reins, his arms aching with the effort of controlling his terrified mount, he covered miles—in what direction he was unable to guess.

  Once the horse got away with him, alarmed by an unusually loud thunderclap; and the tired rider was taken unawares. Michael lay along his saddle while saturated branches lashed at him spitefully. His hat had long since been torn from his head by the wind, which had borne it away in triumph; and his fair hair, darkened by the rain, lay plastered to his skull.

  With difficulty, and by incredible chance, he regained the track, a muddied river, along which he blundered having no idea of time or distance. In this world of noise and water, this world gone mad, he had ceased to think coherently; there was no use in trying to make for any point, since he had no idea of his whereabouts. The trail descended more steeply. He knew he must be emerging from the hills to the plains. He prayed to God for a sign of shelter. Once he thought he saw a light gleam briefly on the plain below him. A gasp of relief escaped from his lips, but a moment later only the confusing darkness, shattered intermittently by the lightning, remained.

  They stumbled down a steep slope, the mud making progress difficult and dangerous. Michael leant back trying to steady the horse in the slippery quagmire. The rain slashed down without mercy.

  At last comparatively level ground took the place of the hillside. Tired out, horse and man persevered through the gloom, faintly thinned by the indistinct light of a drowned moon. Michael crouched forward, his head hunched between his heavy shoulders, trying to shield his eyes from the stinging rain. Gradually the storm appeared to be passing; the thunder grew fainter and less frequent; but the downpour pattered on the earth with a settled insistency that spoke of many hours’ continuance.

  By a fitful gleam of moonlight Michael peered at his watch which he held with clumsy fingers. It pointed to nine o’clock. He could scarcely believe that his battle with the elements had only lasted four hours. A mass of cloud was scudding across the moon, when—glowing in the blackness—in front and to the left of him—Michael saw a square of warm light.

  Buoyed up by hope and, at the same time, overcome with fatigue now that a haven was so close at hand, he turned down a narrow lane that led towards what presently he found to be a cluster of farm buildings. Thatched and white-washed barns formed two wings in conjunction with the central house—a low two-storied structure from which gleamed the lighted window that had attracted his attention. He clattered wearily into the yard. The gale screeched round the corners of the dwelling. With an effort he slid from the saddle and stood up to his ankles in the liquid mire. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted:

  “Hello, there!”

  The wind tore the words away and he realised their futility. Leading the horse he walked to the door and beat upon it with his fist. He waited for several minutes, but no one answered his knock. He crossed to the window, but thick curtains of orange-coloured stuff prevented him from seeing into the room. The water dripped from the eaves and gurgled in the gutters in a steady stream. Returning to the door he banged upon it a second time. As, with savage resentment, he was beginning to think that the occupants must be deaf or dead, a man’s voice called “Who’s there? What do you want?”

  “Let me come in. I want shelter,” Michael shouted. “I’ve lost my way. . . . I can’t go further to-night.”

  Cautiously the door was opened a few inches. “Who are you? What do you want?” the voice repeated.

  “I’m on my way to Fuiza, and I’ve lost my way.”

  The wind and rain swooped against the half-open door, tearing it from the occupant’s grasp and sending it clattering back on its hinges against the wall. The man staggered against the strength of the hurricane.

  “My horse . . . where can I stable it?” Michael bawled, conscious of the other’s scrutiny.

  “Come, I will show you.”

  The man struggled to shut the door, and joined Michael in the yard.

  “This way. Follow me.” He braced himself to the wind.

  The horse having been stabled, fed, and rubbed down, Michael followed his host back to the house. In the narrow hall that led into the living-room they studied one another. Michael faced a man of about his own height, dark and handsome and of early middle age. He was dressed in the faded sh
irt and trousers worn by farmers of the poorer class. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, displaying muscular forearms covered with thick dark hair. His teeth were very white against a skin of clear olive. In his turn he looked at Michael—at the tall, rather thick figure, the shoulders broad almost beyond proportion; at the blue eyes; the mouth with its sensual lower lip; the wet shirt sticking to the wide, deep chest; at the long legs in their muddied and rain-­blackened riding boots.

  “You must be tired and hungry,” the man said.

  He turned as he spoke and led Michael into the living-room, at the end of which a woman was bending over a stove. A rough table was laid for three people. She turned as they entered. Michael saw that she was still young, still in her thirties, and that she had retained the prettiness that often vanished so quickly among her countrywomen.

  “My sister Maria . . . Señor . . . ?” The farmer waited for Michael to give his name.

  “Christie.”

  “My name is Lopez,” the man added. “The Señor will stay with us to-night.”

  “The Señor is soaked to the skin,” Maria interrupted. “Give him some dry clothes, Pedro, and when he has changed I will have the supper prepared. I will send Dolores with some hot water. Hurry now!”

  “Please don’t put yourself to so much trouble. If I can have a towel and some dry clothes, really that is all I want,” Michael answered. His smile was twisted, and he knew that it was said to be attractive.

  He climbed a shallow flight of stairs behind Pedro, and they entered a large and barely furnished room. The farmer put the candle on a shelf by the bed and surveyed his guest.

  “We are of a height,” he observed. “That is good.”

  Selecting the necessary garments from a number that hung on pegs behind the door he laid them on a chair.

  “When you are ready bring your own clothes with you, and Maria will dry them.”

  As the door closed Michael breathed a sigh of pleasure. Shelter, warmth and food. He unbuckled his belt, and drew his shirt over his head. The heavy leather boots were difficult to remove owing to the soaking they had received, but at length, after a struggle and much blasphemy, he stood naked, rejoicing in the glow of well-being that followed his vigorous towelling. A few minutes later, dressed in the borrowed clothes, and carrying his own in his arms, he made his way towards the kitchen. An appetising odour rose to greet him. Maria was bustling from her cooking to the table. Rolls of new white bread were beside each plate, and Michael noticed that a fourth had been added. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, a young girl with a shawl wound round her head slipped into the room, shutting the door swiftly behind her.

  “That is everything, Dolores?” her mother asked.

  “Yes, Mother.” The girl removed her shawl and laid it before the stove to dry. She shivered as she said, “Mother of God—the storm is terrible. It frightens me.”

  “Dolores, we have a guest,” Pedro’s deep voice broke in.

  Michael found his hand holding the girl’s; his eyes looking into hers, large and of a soft brown, and fringed with thick lashes that glistened with the rain out of which she had just come.

  “You are welcome, Señor.”

  At supper Michael ate with enormous appetite; his long day in the saddle and the dangers of the storm had tired but not wearied him, and his host was insistent in his attentions. During the meal Michael discussed the farming situation and political topics with Pedro; the women sitting silent. On several occasions, however, Michael surprised them looking at him intently, but on encountering his gaze they appeared confused. He wondered why Maria looked so sad, a covert sadness that she concealed when aware of observation. The farm might be in financial difficulties, Michael thought. The family appeared a united and happy one but . . . one never knew. The older woman, he discovered, was her brother’s housekeeper, Pedro being a widower.

  While Maria and Dolores cleared away the remains of the supper, Pedro motioned Michael to a chair by the stove and passed him a handful of the native cigarettes, the black tobacco clearly visible through the thin maize paper.

  Their task over, the women joined them, Maria with a basket of mending; Dolores sitting with her hands folded in her lap, listening to the talk.

  After a time Pedro got out of his chair: “We go to bed early. If you will come with me I will show you to your room.”

  Obediently Maria crossed to the dresser and brought a candle to her guest. Taking a sliver of wood she thrust it into the stove and set it to the coarse wick.

  “Good night, Señor—and may the good God watch over you.”

  “Good night Señora—and may the blessed Lord protect you.”

  “Good night, Señor,” Dolores half whispered. Her eyes slanted up at him in shy admiration.

  Michael followed the farmer to the upper storey; along a white-washed passage, the walls of which were broken in several places by massive doors. As they turned the corner leading to the room allotted to him he fancied that he heard a latch behind him gently drawn to; and idly wondered that he had not heard Maria and Dolores come up—but perhaps a farm-hand also slept in the house. Pedro threw open a door.

  “Good night, Señor.”

  Michael, holding the candle above his head, looked round the room. It was very similar to the one in which he had changed. A vast low bed, a crude dressing-table, and a chair were the only furnishings. A crucifix hung on one wall; while an uncurtained window looked on to the raging night.

  He heard Pedro’s footsteps grow fainter in the distance. The wind howled round the eaves and blustered furiously at the window-­panes, dashing the rain in a metallic tattoo against the thick glass. Making it secure in its own grease he put the candle on the dressing-table. The shadows crept from their corners and down from the ceiling. The gale howled like a banshee. Slowly and luxuriously Michael drew off his clothes. He stretched his arms above his head in sensuous satisfaction, well content with his magnificently muscled body. Rest—and to-morrow, when the storm had abated, he would go on his way.

  He thought of the farmer and his good-looking sister and niece. What a simple natural life they led! Finding the atmosphere a little stuffy he decided to open the window an inch or two. Instantly a blast of chilled air filled the room—extinguishing the candle.

  “Blast!” Michael growled. “And I’ve no more matches.”

  He groped his way to the bed; knocking his naked shin against the chair as he did so. Drawing the blankets up to his chin, he burrowed his head deep in the feather-filled pillow.

  But sleep did not come to him at once. He lay staring into the darkness, listening to the wild cries of the wind. Somewhere a door had blown open and was banging with irregular rhythm. He turned on his side and shut his eyes. The house was silent, but out in the night the wind blustered in impotent assault, and the unlatched door banged against a wall with each angry gust, and the rain streamed down—and at length Michael slept.

  It was difficult to explain just why Michael woke two hours later. Certainly the tumult of the storm was as boisterous; and it was equally certain that the cause of his broken sleep was a tiny click. No more indeed, than the lifting of his door-latch. He opened his eyes and peered into the darkness. There was no sound. He told himself that he must have been mistaken, and was preparing to go to sleep again when he heard a board creak, softly but unmistakably. He raised himself on his elbow. Somebody was in his room, somebody who did not wish to be heard. He held his breath. Another cautious step and another gentle creak. Whoever it might be was walking barefooted. Michael decided to let his visitor think that he was asleep. He remembered alarming stories that he had read of lonely houses that had sheltered wayfarers. Well, he hadn’t got much of value to tempt a murderer. Someone was standing by his bed. He heard the sound of breathing. He lay tense . . . waiting. Then he shot out his arm and caught that of the intruder, who stood above him. His fingers closed round a frail wrist in a grip of iron.

  “Señor,” a soft voice whispered, “I had to come.
Do not send me away. And be silent, or he will hear.” There was urgency and fear in the appeal.

  Against the square of the window, hardly less dark than the room itself, Michael saw the silhouette of a woman. . . .

  Later, when he opened his eyes, he was alone.

  At seven in the morning the sky had lightened, although a fine rain still fell with irritating persistency. Michael went to the window and looked out. He washed, and once more dressed himself in his borrowed clothes. He fingered his chin. He supposed that he would have to wait for a shave until he got to Fuiza and the suitcase which he had sent there to await his arrival. He was hungry, and hoped that the family breakfasted at an early hour. When he went down to the living-room he found them already seated round the table.

  “Good morning, Señor. We did not wake you—thinking it better for you to sleep,” Pedro said. “Maria will give you your breakfast.”

  Michael bowed a greeting, and glanced at the two women.

  “Which one?” he wondered.

  Neither gave a sign. Dolores, her head bent over her plate, smiled slightly in answer to his bow. Maria bustled to the stove to bring a hot dish that sizzled in a promising manner. Was it his imagination, Michael wondered, or was his host looking at him intently? He wondered uneasily if he could possibly suspect anything of the previous night’s happenings.

  “Your clothes are dry, Señor, should you wish to put them on,” Maria remarked.

  The shirt and breeches, neatly folded, lay on a wooden bench; his riding boots standing stiffly beside them.

  “You are too kind.” He looked at her directly. “I am more than grateful for all these attentions.”

  Maria gazed back at him unabashed. “It is nothing, Señor.”

  “But it is. You have done a great deal for me. You and your daughter,” he added.

  This time from the corner of his eye he felt certain that Pedro had looked at him sharply. He felt that he had been a fool to say so much. He turned to the man.